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DIVIDED 


DIVIDED 


A  STORY  OF  THE  VELDT 


BY 

FRANCIS  BANCROFT 


With  a  Frontispiece  by 
OEOBGE  W.  a  AGE 


BOSTON 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright  191S  by 

SMALL,  MA  YNARD  ^  COMPANY 

{Incorporated) 


TO  THE  HOMELAND 

For  as  from  void,  blind-eyed  and  consciousless, 
We  struck  the  spaces  of  thine  age-old  plains, 
Across  thy  bare  bosom  steeped  in  light, 
Beneath  thy  blue-domed  bergs,  thy  glittering  Cross 
— O  Magic  Mother,  cradle  of  our  Youth ! 
O  Mother  Land,  our  earliest,  dearest  love ! 
Even  as  we  groped,  blind  forces  on  thy  skirts, 
Toward  the  low-fringed  shores  of  the  To  Be, 
Toward  the  light  and  warmth  of  Primal  Day, 
Time  touched  us,  and  we  Were. 


2134510 


DIVIDED 

PROLOGUE 


Steeped  in  the  white  light  of  a  tropical  sunshine  and 
facing  the  red-bricked  front  of  The  Outspan  —  part 
farmhouse,  part  hostel,  part  country-store  —  with  its 
single  row  of  outhouses  thrust  like  giant  arms  to 
right  and  left  of  the  main  building,  ran  the  broad 
trail  of  the  high-road  —  the  sign  and  seal  of  an  invis- 
ible civilization,  the  link  that  bound  the  back-veldt 
dorps  and  farms  of  the  Northern  Transvaal  to  the 
life  and  stir  of  the  great  mining  centres  of  the  south. 

But  to  the  rear  of  the  house  lay  the  garden  and 
orchard  merging  into  the  grounds,  cultivated  and 
virgin,  that  stretched  to  the  rush-fringed  gully  in  the 
kloof  below  through  which  flowed  a  mountain-stream 
backed  by  a  lofty,  wooded  height  towering  upward 
into  solitary  space.  Spanning  the  stream,  a  log- 
bridge  of  primitive  workmanship  connected  The  Out- 
span with  the  Top  Farm,  which  lay  up  the  mountain- 
side, stretching  to  its  boulder-crowned,  flat-topped 
summit,  named  by  the  Brandon  children  World's 
View. 

It  was  in  the  garden  and  orchard,  under  the  grate- 

I 


2  DIVIDED 

ful  coolness  of  the  shady  trees,  or  upon  the  rush- 
bordered  banks  of  the  stream  —  shallow,  and  purling 
over  the  bright  round  pebbles  at  one  point  of  its 
course,  but  falling  some  few  yards  lower  around  a 
huge,  flat-topped  boulder  into  a  fathomless,  silent 
pool  —  that  the  life  of  the  family  beneath  the  roof 
of  The  Outspan  centred.  Here  from  early  morn  till 
bedtime  the  children  played,  worked,  sang,  danced, 
wept,  quarrelled,  loved,  and  learned  the  lessons  of 
life.  And  it  was  from  the  back  stoep  —  where 
through  the  trellised  woodwork  of  the  verandah  great 
peach-trees  thrust  their  pink-laden  branches,  and  the 
overpowering  perfume  of  the  waxy  orange-blossoms 
mingling  with  the  sweetly-pungent  odours  of  flower- 
ing rose-trees  and  verbena-bushes  was  wafted  insist- 
ently on  the  hot  air  —  that  their  parents,  in  those 
intervals  of  leisure  which  came  but  seldom  in  their 
hard-working  lives,  watched  the  physical  and  mental 
development  of  their  little  ones,  planned  for  their 
future  welfare,  and  dreamed  those  ambitious  paren- 
tal dreams  common  to  fathers  and  mothers,  all  un- 
mindful of  the  doom  which  lay  upon  the  land  —  the 
oncoming  of  that  murderous  civil  strife  which  to 
so  many  humble,  wayside  families,  living  their  lives 
out  on  the  solitary  spaces  of  the  wide  veldt-world, 
was  to  mean  the  severance  of  those  closest  earthly 
ties,  dividing  parent  from  child,  brother  from 
brother,  so  that  a  man's  foes  were  to  be,  indeed, 

"  they  of  his  own  household." 

***** 


DIVIDED  3 

Under  the  shade  of  a  group  of  graceful  syringas,  a 
sunny-haired  girl,  with  jewel-bright  eyes,  watched 
her  two  young  brothers  intent  upon  their  favourite 
pastime  of  throwing  for  doVossi. 

Upon  their  skill  as  marksmen,  the  number  of  doV- 
ossi  —  which  to  farm  children  in  South  Africa  rep- 
resent cattle,  i.  e.^  wealth  —  depended.  The  funda- 
mental rule  of  the  game  was  that  each  marksman 
should  aim  at  the  coveted  toy  with  closed  eyes.  If 
successful  in  hitting  the  doVossi  under  these  some- 
what hampering  conditions,  the  treasured  ivory-joint 
became  his. 

"  I'll  have  to  be  hired  man,"  George  Brandon  re- 
marked resignedly,  when  the  pick  of  this  strange  herd 
—  the  great,  polished,  yellow  doVossi  representing 
the  bull  —  fell  to  his  younger  brother. 

"  How  well  you  threw  to-day,  Thane,"  said  his 
sister,  springing  upward  to  catch  at  a  low,  broad 
bough  that  promised  well  for  an  exciting  swing. 

An  echo  came  to  her  words. 

"  The  —  little  —  baas  —  didn't  — throw  —  fair," 
a  fresh  young  voice  was  insolently  droning  a  repeti- 
tion of  the  charge.  "  The  —  little  —  baas  — 
didn't " 

"  Son  of  a  water-rat,  hold  thy  peace !  Wouldst 
bring  a  storm  about  our  heads'?  "  growled  one  among 
the  group  of  native  boys,  who,  from  a  distance,  were 
permitted  to  watch  their  young  masters  at  play.  But 
the  bold  and  impudent  Singula  continued  half  below 


4  DIVIDED 

his  breath  to  voice  his  conviction  of  an  injustice  done 
to  the  heir  of  the  Brandons : 

"  The  —  little  —  baas  —  didn't  —  throw — fair.'* 
"  Cease,  addle-head  I  pig !  baboon !     What  is  it  to 
thee?     Art  thou  as  the  white  masters,  fool*?  " 

"  Cease !  or  we  shall  be  driven  from  the  garden." 
In  a  guilty  conscience  suspicion  is  readily  awak- 
ened. Thane  Brandon  turned  sharply  from  his 
cherished  doVossi  and  surveyed  frowningly  the  now 
utterly  impassive  countenances  of  the  native  boys. 
Addressing  one  in  fluent  Zulu,  he  demanded  master- 
fully: 

"  Zimbene,  why  hush  you  Singula"?  " 
"  For  naught  but  his  foolishness,  O  little  baas," 
protested  Zimbene,  as  he  lay  stomach  upon  earth  and 
warily  prodded  with  outstretched,  bare,  brown  toes 
the  guilty  Singula.  "  The  little  baas  has  the  cattle 
and  the  mooi  fat  bull,"  proceeded  the  wily  Zimbene; 
"  he  will  grow  rich  —  rich  —  and  buy  many  wives, 

and  they  shall  hoe  his  lands " 

"  Cease,  O  schemer  I  "  It  was  George's  usually 
mild,  good-natured  young  voice  that  now  rang  out 
threateningly  as  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  gentle 
blue  eyes  all  aflame  with  righteous  indignation  on 
Thane's  behalf.  "Cease!  that  we  may  hear  what 
sings  Singula." 

Zimbene's  flow  of  eloquence  thus  cut  short,  he 
paused  in  his  attempts  to  avert  the  coming  storm, 
merely  administering  a  furtive  kick  to  the  offending 
Singula  as  a  hint  to  him  to  mend  his  song.     Singula, 


DIVIDED  5 

however,  determined  upon  justice,  waited  only  until 
the  irate  little  boys  were  upon  him  before  leaping 
lightly  to  his  feet  and  bounding,  with  the  agility  of 
the  wild-cat,  a  few  yards  beyond  their  reach.  In 
this  way  he  passed  through  the  orchard,  drawing  them 
after  him,  until  he  lay  crouching  among  the  long 
rank  grass  above  the  river-bank,  when  his  droning 
chant  again  rang  out  on  the  still  noonday  air :  "  The 
—  little  —  baas  —  didn't  —  throw  —  fair !  '* 

George,  to  whose  affectionate  heart  Thane  was 
very  dear,  instantly  sprang  forward,  bent  on  certain 
capture  of  the  misguided  youth.  But  though  he 
clasped  and  grasped  the  wily  Singula,  the  nude, 
smooth,  well-greased  body  of  the  tormentor  slipped 
from  beneath  his  clutch ;  and  with  a  low,  gay  chuckle, 
that  was  maddening  in  the  extreme.  Singula  was 
speeding  down  the  pathway  that  led  to  the  rush- 
fringed  banks  of  the  stream,  followed  by  the  whole 
party  of  children  in  hot  pursuit  of  a  common  and 
dangerous  foe. 

"  He  must  be  thrashed  till  he  takes  back  his 
wicked  lies,"  George  exclaimed,  breathlessly. 
"  Wait  till  I  get  hold  of  the  beggar  —  you'll  see !  " 

But  Singula  had  no  intention  whatever  of  fall- 
ing into  "  Baas  "  George's  clutches,  and  not  being 
incommoded  by  garments  he  dashed  into  the  stream 
and  now  lay  panting  at  full  length  upon  the  big, 
flat-topped  boulder  that  blocked  the  flow  of  the 
waters  as  they  rushed  by  on  either  side  of  its  smooth 


6  DIVIDED 

grey  sides,  to  fall  immediately  below  into  the  dark, 
still,  bottomless  pool. 

Now,  Singula,  safe  from  attack,  lay  on  his  back 
upon  the  hot,  flat  rock,  kicking  his  sticks  of  legs  sky- 
ward, waving  his  lean,  brown  arms  in  insolent  con- 
tempt of  his  helpless  but  furiously-raging  foes,  while 
with  idle  insouciance  his  clear  young  voice  chanted 
lazily  the  hateful  accusation: 

"Eh-hu  .  .  .  Eh-hu  .  .  .  the  —  little  —  baas  — 
didn't  —  throw  —  fair." 

"Brute  I  pig  I  porcupine!  I'll  smash  thy  head 
when  I  get  at  thee  I  "  screamed  the  furious  Thane,  his 
steel-grey  eyes  blazing  with  fiery  indignation  and 
passionate  anger  as  he  shook  an  impotent  fist  at  his 
traducer. 

"  Zimbene  .  .  .  Zimbene,  drive  him  over  to  us !  " 
shouted  George  coaxingly,  since  threats  and  com- 
mands had  failed.  Out  from  between  the  rushes 
on  the  opposite  bank  Zimbene's  woolly  head  peeped, 
while  across  the  song  of  the  stream  came  his  reply: 

"  Little  baas,  I  will  put  myself  under  thy  heel  — 
but  ask  me  not  to  touch  the  water-rat;  for,  as  thou 
knowest,  his  mother  is  a  witch,  and  would  tor  the 
house  of  my  father  so  that  all  therein  should  die  the 
death." 

"  Coward !  "  George  shouted  back  disdainfully, 
while  Singula's  laugh  rang  out  insultingly,  inflam- 
ing the  children  to  a  pitch  of  madness. 

"Let  us  go  back  to  the  garden;  then  we  shan't 
hear  the  little  beast,"  Margery  suggested,  suddenly 


DIVIDED  7 

recalled  to  the  fact  that  they  were  disobeying  a  most 
stringent  parental  command  in  leaving  the  shelter  of 
the  trees  by  the  feel  of  the  hot  sun  beating  fiercely 
upon  her  head.     "  Come,  boys,  I'll  race  you  back." 

She  turned,  catching  a  hand  of  each  young 
brother,  and  drew  them  from  the  spot. 

"  If  only  I  hadn't  promised  mother  never  to  go 
into  the  water  in  the  heat,"  George  said  regretfully, 
as  he  looked  at  the  abused  Thane  and  sighed.     But : 

"  Don't  think  of  it,  George,"  his  sister  urged  wam- 
ingly;  "  father  would  be  terribly  angry  if  ever  you 
went  into  the  water  with  the  sun  right  overhead;  it 
would  be  enough  to  kill  you." 

And:  "No,  George,  you  mustn't;  you  would 
only  get  a  thrashing  for  it  from  father,"  little  Thane 
added  moodily,  reading  his  brother's  thoughts. 

"  But  for  that  brute  to  get  off  scot-free,"  George 
objected. 

"  Another  time  your  chance  will  come,"  Margery 
began  sensibly. 

But,  unfortunately,  as  she  spoke  came  again  the 
hateful  drone  with  startling  clearness.  Singula,  not 
to  be  cheated  of  his  fun,  had  forsaken  his  rocky  bed 
and  now  crept  closely  upon  the  retreating  foe.  As 
they  turned,  his  coal-black  eyes  peered  roguishly  at 
them  from  among  the  tall  rushes  some  few  yards  dis- 
tant, the  low  drone  filled  the  air:  "  didn't  —  throw 
—  fair " 

George,  in  an  access  of  overpowering  rage,  gave 
chase.     Singula,  regaining  the  bank,  plunged  into 


8  DIVIDED 

the  water.  But,  now,  the  white  boy,  heedless  of  all 
but  his  capture  and  punishment,  fell  upon  him  bodily 
—  shaking,  thumping,  half-choking  him  —  as  he 
struggled  desperately  to  free  himself.  The  churning 
waters  covered  both  boys  in  a  cloud  of  spray  and 
foam. 

"  The  water-rat  is  in  the  hands  of  the  baas !  The 
water-rat  getteth  his  due ! "  came  a  triumphant 
chorus  from  the  opposite  bank. 

"Oh!  whatever  will  father  say?"  Margery  de- 
manded desperately  of  the  dancing,  jubilant  Thane. 
She  herself  alternately  danced  with  joy  at  George's 
wonderful  prowess,  and  quaked  with  fear  as  to  the 
probable  consequences  of  his  rash  act.  She  resolved 
to  dry  his  clothes  "  on  the  quiet,"  and  so  avert  all 
knowledge  of  the  catastrophe. 

Next  moment  she  shrieked  aloud.  Singula,  in  his 
struggles,  had  drawn  George  after  him  across  the 
boulder,  and  with  an  ominous  splash  that  the  still  air 
re-echoed  loudly  both  boys  fell  headlong  into  the 
fathomless  pool. 


n 


The  cries  of  the  children  brought  to  the  rescue  some 
field-labourers,  headed  by  Jonas,  the  native  foreman. 
George,  manfully  keeping  himself  afloat,  was  assisted 
in  his  efforts  to  reach  the  boulder. 

"  Where  is  Singula"?  "  were  his  first  words  on  find- 
ing himself  grasped  by  Jonas's  long  brown  arm. 

"  It's  with  his  father  the  devil  he'd  be  if  all  got 
their  due,"  growled  the  trusty  old  servant;  "  and 
I'd  like  to  know,  Master  George,  if  you  think  it  is 
worth  your  while  to  risk  your  life  over  scum  like 
him?'* 

Jonas'  voice  and  accent  expressed  the  worst  pos- 
sible opinion  of  the  water-rat.  His  adoration  for 
Master  George  left  him  choking  with  rage  at  the 
bare  idea  of  the  imminent  risk  of  drowning  the  boy 
had  run  through  the  instrumentality  of  so  low  a 
thing  as  the  little  black  imp. 

George,  with  chattering  teeth,  was  hurried  home- 
ward. Half-way  up  the  garden  the  children  spied 
their  mother  flying  hatless  towards  them,  followed 
by  their  father. 

"  George !  "  shrieked  Mrs.  Brandon,  who  had 
heard  a  wild  rumour  that  her  first-born  son  had 
fallen  into  the  pool.     Scarcely  trusting  the  evidence 

9 


lo  DIVIDED 

of  her  senses,  she  now  clutched  him  in  her  arms,  with 
horror  and  dread  pounding  at  her  wildly-beating 
heart. 

"  Oh  —  mother!  "  poor  George  was  stricken  sud- 
denly by  a  sense  of  his  failure  in  duty  as  a  son.  How 
impossible  he  had  found  it  to  reconcile  this  filial 
obedience  with  his  conviction  of  what  was  due  from 
him  as  Thane's  elder  brother  he  was  at  a  loss  to  ex- 
plain, disliking  to  tell  tales  even  of  the  native  boy. 
"It  couldn't  be  helped,  mother,"  he  said  lamely; 
"  it  won't  happen  again,"  for  never  again,  he  re- 
flected, would  Singula  be  allowed  entrance  into  the 
garden. 

"  I'll  see  it  doesn't,"  roared  his  father,  who  had 
been  listening  breathlessly  to  Jonas'  account  of  the 
accident  and  of  the  cause  that  had  led  up  to  it.  "  To 
think  of  you  goin'  foolin'  round  that  pool  —  led 
right  into  it  by  that  cursed  nigger  —  I'll  break  every 

bone  in  his  d d  body  .  .  .  I'll  skin  his  d d 

eyes !  "  He  was  choking  with  rage.  "  Go  I  "  he 
shouted  to  the  smirking  Jonas;  "  bid  them  be  off  the 
place  —  every  man  and  woman  of  the  lot,  with  all 

their  d d  brats!     I'll  not  have  them  on  the 

place  another  day!  I'll  burn  their  huts!  .  .  .  I'll 
throw  their  traps  on  the  veldt  if  they're  not  off  the 
place  by  sunset!  Go,  Jonas;  give  'em  the  word  to 
clear,  sharp !  "  Then,  as  Jonas,  excited  to  intensest 
admiration  by  this  harsh  sentence  upon  an  inoffen- 
sive native  household,  went  off  in  hot  haste  on  his 
errand    Brandon    turned    furiously    upon    his    son 


DIVIDED  11 

"  Haven't  I  told  you  never  to  go  near  that  boulder*? 
Haven't  I?  I'll  make  you  remember  it  I  Here  — 
let  go  —  let  go." 

He  snatched  George  fiom  his  wife's  grasp.  She, 
crying : 

"  Don't  touch  him  I  I  won't  have  him  touched  I 
It's  ridiculous!  George  has  never  in  his  life 
been  disobedient!  I  won't  —  worCt  —  have  him 
touched,"  clung  to  her  son. 

"  Never  mind,  mother  .  .  .  don  t  cry,  mother  dear 
...  it  hurts  much  worse  to  see  you  cry."  George's 
distressed  tones  were  drowned  by  his  father's  thwacks 
and  his  mother's  "  don't."  But,  Margery,  black 
with  rage  against  her  father,  heard  the  request,  and 
with  gentle  force  pulled  her  mother  by  the  sleeve. 

"Come  in.  Mums,"  she  said,  impatiently;  "you 
only  make  George  feel  worse;  and  father'U  cool 
down  sooner  by  himself." 

Seeing  his  half-fainting  wife  drawn  away  by  his 
daughter,  Brandon's  arm  fell  nervelessly  to  his  side. 
"  Good  God !  "  he  groaned  below  his  breath,  and  his 
face,  too,  was  grey  with  the  late  terrible  emotion 
through  which  he  had  just  passed. 

"  Off  with  those  wet  togs  of  yours,  my  boy,"  he 
said  aloud;  "  and  look  slippy,  "  he  shouted  after  the 
flying  young  figure;  and  surrounded  by  his  mother 
and  sister,  together  with  his  old  nurse  Lisbeth  — 
who  had  been  hinting  at  the  sound  scolding  in  store 
for  "  her  ole  man,"  the  inoffensive  Jonas  —  the  cul- 
prit, a  veritable  hero  in  the  eyes  of  this  wayside 


12  DIVIDED 

household  who  loved  him  with  a  rare  devotion,  was 
rushed  into  his  bedroom;  dried,  re-clothed,  and 
greatly  comforted  with  hot  spiced-wine  and  plum- 
cake. 


Ill 


Evening  had  fallen  upon  this  most  eventful  day  — 
a  day  of  days  m  the  annals  of  the  history  of  The 
Outspan. 

Who  so  filial  and  loving  a  son  as  the  little  eight- 
year-old  boy,  the  hope  of  the  Brandons,  whom  every- 
one loved;  the  one  tractable,  obedient  member  of  an 
otherwise  unruly  family?  Margery  was  willful  — 
terribly  headstrong  —  terribly  hard  to  manage  —  so 
her  mother  was  reminding  her  still  fuming  husband 
as  they  sat  together  late  that  night  after  the  rest  of 
the  household  had  gone  to  their  beds;  and  Thane,  as 
he  very  well  knew,  was  frightfully  hot-tempered  and 
disobedient  and  stubborn.  What  would  these  two 
be  without  the  softening  influence  of  George  —  so 
steady,  so  dependable,  so  honourable  and  truthful 
and  sweet-natured  as  he  was? 

At  every  "  so  "  Mrs.  Brandon  paused  in  her  task 
of  mending  her  boys'  socks  to  point  an  accusing  spike 
of  a  darner  at  her  husband. 

"  I  don't  say  he  isn't,"  grumbled  Brandon,  though 
in  distinctly  mollified  tones.  He  took  up  his  pipe, 
knocked  out  the  ash,  and  proceeded  with  a  sigh  of 
intense  relief  to  light  up.     "  First  smoke  I've  had 

13 


14  DIVIDED 

since  it  happened  .  .  .  my  heart's  been  in  my  mouth 
ever  since."  He  drew  in  a  whiff,  then  laid  down 
the  pipe  and  shook  his  head  gloomily.  "  Can't  fancy 
it  even  now  .  .  .  that  'ull  tell  you  .  .  .  Good 
heavens!  wife!  do  you  tell  yourself  in  cold  blood 
that  our  boy  was  in  that  damned  hole  *?  —  actually 
in  it!  How  he  didn't  sink  and  drown  and  go  to  the 
bottomless-bottom  —  if  one  may  say  such  a  thing 
—  and  lie  there  forevermore,  beats  me !  —  Hush, 
Barbara  I  for  goodness'  sake  don't  go  off  into  hyster- 
ics again!  Pull  yourself  together  .  .  .  here,  drink 
this;  yes,  you  must;  it'll  buck  you  up  .  .  .  don't  go 
off  again  .  .  .  you'll  wake  the  children  .  .  .  there, 
there,  dear." 

Mrs.  Brandon  drank,  choked,  and  cried  —  laying 
her  head  on  the  basket  of  stockings  and  bedewing 
them  with  her  tears. 

"  Oh,  George !  George !  however  could  you  say 
it  out  so  cruelly?  Haven't  I  —  Oh  .  .  .  haven't 
I  been  thinking  of  nothing  else  all  day?  "  she  de- 
manded in  tones  of  anguish. 

"  Hush !  hush !  steady  now,  mother  .  .  .  don't 
think  of  it  no  more.  I  was  a  brute  to  have  said  it 
.  .  .  but  you  blame  me  —  yes,  you  do,  don't  shake 
your  head;  I  know  at  bottom  of  your  heart  you  blame 
me  for  laying  a  finger  on  him." 

"  I  don't  —  but  he  didn't  deserve  it,"  she  ex- 
plained confusedly. 

"  He  didn't  —  yet  he  did.     Don't  you  see " 

"  Yes,  I  do  see,"  she  interrupted,  lifting  her  head 


DIVIDED  15 

proudly  and  again  pointing  the  needle  accusingly  at 
him;  "  I  see  our  boy's  wonderful  loyalty  and  no- 
bility of  spirit.  Think  of  it,  dear,  such  a  little  chap, 
yet  so  honourable  and  brave  —  he  felt  he  must  de- 
fend Thane  at  all  costs.  It  was  this  sense  of  honour, 
so  strong  in  him,  and  his  deep,  true  love  for  his 
brother  that  impelled  him  to  risk  your  anger  —  my 
distress  —  for  he  never  has  been  disobedient,  not 
through  all  his  young,  sweet  life.  He  loves  us  too 
dearly  —  yet  he  loves  Thane  too  .  .  .  Oh,  my  boy 

—  so  tender-hearted,  so  noble,  so  dear  "  —  and  Mrs. 
Brandon's  head  again  went  down  before  the  awful 
thought  of  how  nearly  she  had  lost  this  most  gracious 
boy  and  precious  son,  the  child  nearest  to  her  gentle, 
loving  heart. 

Her  husband,  though  cast  in  a  harsher,  harder 
mould  —  a  type  reproduced  in  the  wilful,  proud- 
spirited Margery  and  the  stormy-natured,  stubborn 
little  Thane  —  yet  understood  something  of  that  pro- 
found agony  which  tore  at  her  heart-strings.  He 
reasoned  no  further,  but,  in  mingled  irritation  and 
contrition,  drew  the  sock  at  which  she  had  been 
working  from  oif  her  hand,  threw  it  —  spike  and  all 

—  among  its  fellows  in  the  basket,  pushed  that 
homely  object  across  the  length  of  the  table,  and 
taking  his  wife  in  his  arms  carried  her  off  bodily  to 
bed. 


IV 


It  had,  indeed,  been  a  day  of  days  at  The  Outspan 
—  the  master's  pipe  out  for  the  day,  the  mistress 
in  hysterics  and  a  fainting-fit  too,  as  Lisbeth  was 
aware,  and  now  in  confidence  made  the  thing  known 
to  Jonas. 

"  And  why  not*?  "  demanded  that  worthy,  scowl- 
ing hideously.  "Why  not,  woman *?  It's  not  an- 
other boy  like  Master  George  that  the  Almighty 
would  be  likely  sparing  to  her  again  in  a  hurry," 
added  Jonas,  in  the  sepulchral  tones  that  had  marked 
him  throughout  the  past  eventful  hours. 

"Let  us  pray,"  said  Jonas  who  prided  himself 
upon  being  a  "  church-boy  "  —  a  peg  higher  in  the 
social  scale  of  the  red-blanketed  barbarian.  "  Let 
us  to  prayers;  and  among  other  blessings  for  which 
we  have  to  give  thanks  this  night,  let  us  not  forget 
to  express  our  jubilations  that  this  farm  of  the  highly 
respectable  Mr.  Brandon  is  now  clear  of  the  con- 
dam-i-nsL'ting  presence  of  the  family  of  the  ignorant, 
devil-worshipping  water-rats." 


i6 


Sleep  had  been  long  in  coming  to  the  youngsters. 
Margery,  the  self-reliant,  wilful  young  daughter  of 
the  house,  stronger  temperamentally  than  her  softer- 
natured  mother,  felt  no  longer  the  sickening  pit-a-pat 
at  her  heart;  felt  only  a  fierce  anger  towards  Singula, 
a  fierce  joy  that  he  and  his  had  already  been  sent 
packing  with  a  month's  wages  in  lieu  of  the  custom- , 
ary  notice  (Brandon,  though  hard,  was  a  just  man). 
The  little  girl  felt,  too,  a  fierce  conviction  that,  had 
George  been  drowned,  she  would  have  thrown  her 
own  young  body  into  the  pool  to  fall  into  corruption 
by  his  side.  Her  love  for  her  brother  was  the  in- 
tense, unreasoning  idolatry  of  child-worship.  Head- 
strong, wilful,  perverse,  and  oft-times  secretive  and 
disobedient,  she  was  influenced  only  by  the  passion- 
ate love  she  felt  for  her  brother.  Margery  closed 
her  eyes  again  and  again,  but  as  often  re-opened 
them  to  consider  the  delicious  sensation  of  George's 
safety.  But,  in  the  end,  she  could  bear  the  lone- 
liness no  longer  and  crept  from  her  room  when  all 
was  quiet  to  snuggle  on  the  foot  of  the  bed  in  the 
adjacent  nursery,  where  her  brothers  slept,  and 
verify  by  touch  that  George  was  safely  there. 

That  hero,  slumbering  lightly  in  the  earlier  hours 

17 


i8  DIVIDED 

of  the  evenii^,  had  been  awakened  by  the  sound  of 
a  stifled  sob.  He  listened  wonderingly.  Who  could 
it  be?  Not  Thane,  the  callous,  stony-hearted  young 
rascal  whose  proud  boast  it  was  that  nothing  and  no 
one  could  wring  a  tear  from  his  steel-bright  eyes. 
"  Girls  cried"  so  he  would  scornfully  tell  his  sister 
and  their  little  neighbours  the  du  Bruyn  girls,  who 
lived  across  the  stream  and  spent  most  of  their  time 
with  the  children  at  The  Outspan.  Thane  was  the 
despair  of  parents,  nurses  and  friends.  Violent, 
hot-tempered,  hard  of  heart,  he  was  constantly  in 
mischief,  and  as  constantly  refused  to  acknowledge 
his  misdeeds.  Here,  again,  it  was  George  who  alone 
could  exert  the  slightest  influence,  for  Thane  secretly 
worshipped  his  elder  brother  with  a  passionate, 
stormy,  heart-searing  worship  that  softened  his  iron 
nature  to  an  occasional  fit  of  repentance  and  amend- 
ment of  his  ways. 

"  Thane  . . .  old  chap  ..."  George  said,  softly. 

The  sobbing  continued. 

"  Look  here,  old  man,  you  musn't  ...  Is  it  a 
bad  dream?" 

"  I  haven't  dreamed  nothin',"  sobbed  six-year- 
old  Thane.  "  I  couldn't  dream  nothin',  'cause  I 
couldn't  sleep  thinkin'  of  you  in  that  nasty  ole  pool." 

"  But  I  got  out  all  right.  Old  Jonas  pulled  me 
out  splendidly;  and  father's  going  to  give  him  a  moot 
fat  heifer,  and  he  says  we  must  never,  never  send 
him  away.     He's  to  live  on  The  Outspan  always." 

"  But  father  thrashed  you  —  the  beast  I  " 


DIVIDED  19 

"  Hush,  Thane !  you  mustn't  say  that  of  Dad;  his 
whacks  didn't  hurt  —  not  so  very  much,"  added 
George,  wishing  to  adhere  to  facts. 

"  I  ought  to  have  got  'em,"  whispered  Thane,  in 
a  fit  of  deepest  abasement. 

"You!    Why^"  asked  the  other,  puzzled. 

"  Yes  —  I  ought."  Then,  with  a  terrible  wrench 
at  his  pride  and  stubbornness,  torn  with  horror  at 
the  thought  of  that  fearful  risk  his  brother  had 
incurred.  Thane's  childish  heart  melted,  and  he 
confessed  brokenly: 

**  'Cause  .  .  .  'cause  if  you  had  drowned  it  would 
have  been  my  fault,"  he  sobbed;  "'cause  jus'  as  I 
throwed  for  that  bull  doVossi  —  I  didn't  open  my 
eyes,  but  somethin'  pulled  'em  open  .  .  .  my  eye- 
lashes, I  mean  ...  I  dunno  how  they  comed  open, 
but  I  jus'  found  'em  apart  —  so."  He  sat  up  in 
bed,  facing  the  earnest  gaze  of  George's  gentle  blue 
eyes  regarding  him  with  sorrowful  intent.  By  the 
light  of  the  moon  shining  in  through  the  unshuttered 
window  George  could  see  the  child's  long  lashes 
fluttering  slightly  apart.  "  I  didn't  open  'em," 
Thane  repeated  earnestly,  "but  jus'  as  I  throwed 
they  came  apart  —  just  a  tiny,  wee  bit;  but  that 
water-rat  saw  and  threw  it  at  me  —  the  beast !  " 

The  mighty  task  of  confession  was  over,  and  the 
little  boy  looked  expectantly  to  his  brother  for  that 
balm  of  consolation  which  never  was  withheld. 

"  You  didn't  mean  to  look.  Thane,"  George  said, 
generously. 


20  DIVIDED 

Thane  lay  back  on  his  pillow,  the  heart-ache  con- 
siderably assuaged. 

"  But  that  beast  threw  it  at  me,"  he  murmured, 
"  and  you  —  you  stood  up  to  him  —  and  when  I 
couldn't  sleep  I  thought  you  might  have  been 
drowned  and  dead —  and  me  —  here  —  lying  by 
myself  —  all  alone,"  and  little  Thane's  voice  again 
grew  hoarse  with  grief. 

George  put  out  a  hand  and  laid  it  on  his  brother's. 

"  Don't  think  of  that  any  more  . . .  See,  we  will 
hold  hands ;  then  you  can  be  sure  I  am  here." 

"  You  believe  me,  don't  you,  George,"  sighed  the 
contrite  Thane. 

"'Course  I  do;  you  don't  tell  lies,"  George  re- 
sponded, heartily. 

The  little  chap's  hand  snuggled  closer  within  the 
warm  clasp. 

"  You  do  comfort  a  chap,  George,"  he  said  sleep- 
ily. Then  the  long  lashes  fell  peacefully  over  the 
closed  eyes  of  both  the  boys  as  they  passed  into  un- 
troubled sleep. 


TO  THE  HOMELAND 

For  as  from  void,  blind-eyed  and  consciousless, 
We  struck  the  spaces  of  thine  age-old  plains, 
Across  thy  bare  bosom  steeped  in  light. 
Beneath  thy  blue-domed  bergs,  thy  glittering  Cross 
—  O  Magic  Mother,  cradle  of  our  Youth! 
O  Mother  Land,  our  earliest,  dearest  love! 
Even  as  we  groped,  blind  forces  on  thy  skirts, 
Toward  the  low-fringed  shores  of  the  To  Be, 
Toward  the  light  and  warmth  of  Primal  Day, 
Time  touched  us,  and  we  Were. 


BOOK  ONE 


On  an  afternoon  at  the  close  of  the  winter  of  nine- 
teen-hundred-and-one,  when  the  Monster  of  War 
still  pressed  heavily  upon  the  blackened  wastes  of  the 
Northern  Transvaal,  the  unflecked  blue  of  the  Afri- 
can sky  looked  down  upon  the  solitary  post-house 
lying  snugly  in  the  shadow  of  the  lofty  mountain 
range,  lost  in  the  immensity  of  the  fiat,  inexpressive 
plain. 

For  mile  upon  mile  —  to  north  and  south,  to  east 
and  west  of  The  Outspan  —  away  to  the  furthest 
limits  of  the  boundless  horizon  the  land  lay  silent 
and  solitary,  washed  in  the  fading  sunlight  slipping 
over  the  gaunt,  stern,  passionate  face  of  the  veldt. 
Barren  and  monotonous,  parched  to  the  verge  of  un- 
sightliness  as  that  face  may  have  appeared  at  this 
season  of  the  year  to  the  uninitiated  traveller  voyag- 
ing across  this  ocean  of  the  earth-world,  it  yet  was 
stamped  with  that  sublimity  of  vastness,  that 
majesty  of  the  primeval  and  changeless  which  so 
passionately  endears  it  to  the  sons  of  the  soil  — 
those  primitive,  rugged  folk,  the  veldt-dwellers,  who 
live  in  closest  sympathy  with  the  very  pulsing  of  her 
mighty  heart. 

25 


26  DIVIDED 

Like  life,  the  veldt  is  monotonous  yet  full  of  sharp 
surprises.  Like  death,  it  is  a  mighty  leveller.  The 
traveller  who  from  early  dawn  to  late  afternoon  tra- 
verses its  undulating  waste  —  soundless  as  it  might 
have  been  in  the  period  before  Creation's  dawn  — 
falls  unconsciously  as  day  advances  beneath  the  spell 
of  its  strange  magic.  He  forgets  his  former  un- 
favourable verdict  upon  the  veldt-world.  Its  en- 
chantment has  conquered  his  senses.  He  finds  it  no 
longer  repellent;  instead,  it  begins  to  fascinate,  for 
its  beauty  lies  in  its  bigness,  in  its  strength,  in  its 
simplicity,  and  these  begin  to  reveal  themselves  to 
him. 

The  amazing  silence,  the  unutterable  solitude,  the 
cool,  dry  air,  the  untameable  aspect,  the  illimitable 
expanse  —  all  become  wonderfully  fascinating, 
worthy  even  of  worship.  He  passes  mile  after  mile 
of  sand  and  bush,  of  scrub  and  boulder.  He  sees  the 
little  white  thorn  beloved  of  African  deserts,  the 
patches  of  cacti  and  milk-bushes,  the  clumps  of  gold- 
en-blossomed mimosa  trees.  So  long  as  he  glimpses 
in  the  distance  the  rocky  kopjes  upon  which  the  grey- 
green  aloes  point  their  crimson  spires  to  heaven,  so 
long  he  feels  that  life  has  its  compensations.  The 
wild,  dreamy,  open  veldt  gives  his  imagination,  his 
spiritual  senses,  free  play.  The  veldt  speaks  to  him 
and  her  voice  is  of  the  primeval  and  the  inevitable. 

Suddenly  life  reveals  itself  in  its  true  perspective^ 


DIVIDED  27 

its  true  colours.  He  finds  himself  viewing  with  scorn 
the  accepted,  the  conventional;  looking  beyond  the 
poor  stale  mask  of  human  subterfuges,  of  human 
hypocrisies;  recoiling  before  the  thought  of  human- 
ity's feeble,  hampering,  idiotic  laws  and  customs,  of 
humanity's  pitiful  idols,  of  its  tin-pot  gods.  Little- 
ness is  swept  out  of  his  soul,  and  to  his  mind  and 
brain  are  revealed  the  real  essentials  of  life  —  truth, 
passion,  suffering,  struggle  —  these  alone  are  the 
eternal  verities. 

From  afar,  on  the  western  horizon,  a  crimson  light 
fills  earth  and  air  and  sky  and  plain.  With  majestic 
approach  it  advances  and  the  dust-cloud,  that 
throughout  the  day's  journey  has  clung  lovingly  to 
the  traveller,  now  turns  to  an  opaque  red  pall. 
Through  it,  stifling  and  suffocated,  he  struggles  for- 
ward —  blinded,  befogged,  lost  in  an  ocean  of  ruddy 
hue.  Still  he  toils  doggedly  onward  through  the 
maze  of  darkness.  It  is  the  fog  of  life  which  he  ad- 
ventures —  the  fog  through  which  a  purblind  hu- 
manity must  each  in  turn  stumblingly  pass.  It  is 
the  blood-red  stream  of  life  carrying  him  onward  — 
the  stream  down  which  we  all  are  borne  to  the  goal 
of  death. 

But,  as  is  the  way  of  all  life's  fogs,  granted 
patience  and  sooner  or  later  they  lift,  so  with  the 
traveller  wrapped  in  the  crimson  pall  of  the  suf- 
focating fog  of  the  veldt-world.  Even  as  it  comes 
to  him  that  his  strength  is  spent,  the  track  is  lost  and 
the  end  of  all  things  is  at  hand,  ghostlike  the  pall 


28  DIVIDED 

lifts  and  disappears,  and  he  sees  before  him  the 
shaggy,  boulder-crowned  height  of  World's  View 
overshadowing  The  Outspan  —  the  house  of  rest 
and  refreshment  for  man  and  beast  —  the  goal  to 
which  since  earliest  dawn  he  has  been  pressing. 

The  open  doors  of  the  post-house  throw  out  a  hos- 
pitable welcome  and  he  joyfully  draws  rein. 

Truly  the  veldt,  like  life,  has  its  sharp  surprises. 


II 


The  crimson  ball  of  the  sun  was  declining  over 
World's  View,  leaving  the  garden  of  the  post-house 
in  the  shade  of  the  branching  trees  while  lighting  up 
the  row  of  back  windows  facing  west.  Long  beams 
of  roseate  light  beat  upon  the  stone-paved  floor  of 
the  kitchen,  climbed  the  white-washed  walls  and 
clung  to  the  thick,  black  rafters  and  tarred  cross- 
beams supporting  the  high-arched,  unceiled  roof. 

The  sunlight  played  about  the  smooth,  rounded 
arms  —  bared  almost  to  the  shoulders  —  of  Margery 
Brandon,  as  she  flashed  the  long-handled  mop,  now 
out,  now  in  the  sides  of  the  shining  enamelled  sauce- 
pans ranged  in  order  along  the  wooden  settle  fixed  in 
the  corner  of  the  big  chimney-place. 

Splash,  splash  —  the  last  shining  utensil  was 
vigorously  whirled  round  in  the  trough  of  steaming 
water  as,  with  a  tired,  white  face  and  aching  back, 
she  straightened  herself  from  her  stooping  position 
over  the  wooden  tub. 

The  door  behind  her  was  thrown  open  with  sud- 
den impetus  by  a  tall,  broad-shouldered  young  giant 
with  notably  dark,  frowning  brows. 

"  Margery,  hurry  up  with  some  tea  and  grub,  will 

29 


30  DIVIDED 

you?  A  fellow  has  just  turned  up;  says  he  must  be 
on  the  move  again  soon." 

Margery  Brandon  swung  round  towards  her 
brother.  One  saw,  as  they  faced  each  other,  the 
striking  resemblance  between  these  well-built,  iron- 
willed,  strong-natured  scions  of  the  Brandon  family. 

She  spoke  with  a  quick,  low-toned  impatience: 

"  I  can't  make  the  tea  till  the  water  boils.  Do 
give  the  fire  a  poke  while  I  set  the  tray."  Then,  as 
with  a  certain  rapid  deliberation  she  dried  her  shapely 
arms  on  the  roller-towel  fixed  above  the  wooden 
settle  and  proceeded  to  set  out  crockery  and  edibles 
upon  a  big,  round  dinner-tray,  she  demanded  the 
absurd  reason  of  the  traveller's  haste  in  a  country 
where  leisure  is  the  rule  of  life. 

Thane  Brandon  was  applying  the  bellows  to  the 
already  roaring  flame  shooting  up  the  vast  maw  of 
the  stoutly-built  chimney. 

"  There,  burn  up,  will  you?  "  he  exclaimed  aggres- 
sively, addressing  the  fire;  then  turning  to  his  sister 
as  she  moved  swiftly  between  pantry  and  dresser: 
"  Oh,"  he  explained,  "  seems  he's  one  of  the  Irregu- 
lars trying  to  catch  up  with  his  comrades  on  the 
border.  They  left  him  down  with  fever  —  in 
Rhodesia  somewhere  —  and  he's  followed  up  on 
horseback." 

"What  a  long  ride!  ...  and  after  a  bout  of 
fever,  too.     Australian,  is  he?  " 

Thane  nodded. 

"And  tough  —  says  his  name's  Woodward;  he's 


DIVIDED  31 

an  officer;  a  captain,  so  he  says."  His  keen,  steel- 
grey  eyes  fell  on  the  row  of  newly-scoured  pots  and 
pans:  "  I  say,  have  you  had  to  turn  to  this^  What 
a  confounded  nuisance  the  niggers  clearing  off !  Pre- 
tend they're  afraid  of  the  Boer  troops.  It's  nothing 
of  the  kind  —  simply  an  excuse  for  a  spree." 

"  They'll  be  back  as  soon  as  the  Boers  clear  out 
from  this  part." 

"Lazy  devils!  We'll  be  left  in  a  nice  mess  if 
they  don't  turn  up  soon.  Where's  old  Lisbeth*? 
Couldn't  she  do  this?  "  he  waved  a  sun-browned 
hand  towards  the  array  on  the  settle. 

"  Washing  clothes,"  Margery  explained,  laconi- 
cally. 

"And  Babs*?" 

His  sister  laughed. 

"  She  can't  scrub  pots." 

"  I  didn't  mean  that,"  Thane  said  gruffly. 

Margery  raised  her  eyebrows,  thick  and  dark  like 
his  own. 

"  Well,  Babs  is  in  the  garden,  I  expect;  I  left  her 
there  busy  over  some  gardening,  and  no  doubt  you'll 
find  her  still  at  it  if  you  want  her." 

Thane  stooped  to  give  another  vigorous  applica- 
tion of  the  bellows.    Then  he  said,  hesitatingly: 

"  No  ...  I  only  thought  you  might  have  sent 
her  to  ask  Johanna  to  come  round  and  help.  She 
would  —  willingly." 

Margery's  lips,  curved  and  red,  pressed  ominously 
together.     In  silence  she  moved  across  the  room. 


32  DIVIDED 

piling  plates,  cold  meat,  bread,  butter,  a  dish  of  pre- 
served fruits  and  a  bowl  of  thick,  golden  cream  upon 
the  groaning  tray. 

"  You  did  not  send?  "  her  brother  persisted. 

"  No,"  she  admitted,  shortly;  "  Jo  is  too  fond  of 
coming  round." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  his  deep  voice  rose  to  a 
growl. 

"Just  that,"  she  replied  simply;  "you  can't 
marry  her  —  you  don't  mean  to,  since  this  war  busi- 
ness.    Well,  she  thinks  you  owe  it  to  her." 

"What  rot!  One  Boer  daughter-in-law  in  the 
family  is  enough,  and  too  many,  I  am  thinking." 
His  voice  dropped  and  grew  confidential :  "I  say, 
Margery,  have  you  noticed  —  George?  " 

She  nodded  comprehendingly. 

"  He  thinks  he  ought  to  go  —  if  they  call  for 
more  men." 

"Confound  it  all!"  Thane  growled;  "he  carCt 
think  it  his  duty?  " 

"  That's  the  trouble,"  she  said  below  her  breath ; 
"  George  was  always  such  a  boy  for  bothering  his 
head  about  what  was  right." 

She  turned  from  a  contemplation  of  the  tray. 

"There,  that  will  do  for  the  tough  Australian;  I 
must  just  make  the  tea.  Oh,  thanks ;  you  have  made 
it,"  as  her  brother  handed  the  tea-pot  and  hot-water 
jug  with  a: 

"  Well,  I  must  get  back  to  help  in  the  bar;  fellows 
are  crowding  in  from  all  sides  to  hear  news  of  the 


DIVIDED  33 

Irregulars  . . .  they  are  not  far  off  now.  This 
fellow  had  better  look  smart  or  the  Boers  'uU  cop 
him." 

"  Where's  father?  "  asked  Margery,  picking  up 
her  weighty  burden. 

"  Old  man  in  the  store  doing  a  roaring  trade," 
Thane  replied,  throwing  open  the  inner  door; 
"  George  is  down;  been  busy  all  the  afternoon  help- 
ing old  Jonas  to  cut  up  forage  —  confound  those 
devils  I" 

With  which  adjuration  at  the  recreant  natives  he 
flung  himself  through  the  doorway  into  the  passage 
which  ran  the  length  of  the  farmhouse.  His  sister 
followed,  the  tray  in  her  capable  hands.  Passing 
into  the  dining-room  she  set  it  down  at  the  end  of  the 
long  dinner-table,  and  spreading  a  white  cloth  over 
the  polished  linoleum  surface  laid  out  the  repast. 


in 


From  his  station  before  the  unshuttered  window, 
crimsoned  by  the  glories  of  the  setting  sun,  the  slim- 
built,  wiry,  khaki-clad  soldier  watched  her  deft 
movements  with  an  abstracted  air. 

To  Philip  Woodward  —  as  his  brain  waveringly 
recorded  the  personality  of  the  heavy-eyed,  pale- 
faced  woman  in  the  plain  print  gown,  with  bared 
arms  and  throat  and  ruffled  hair  —  Margery  Bran- 
don appeared  but  the  usual  farmhouse  drudge.  He 
set  her  down  over  his  repast  as  daughter-in-law  to 
the  old  man,  wife  to  the  good-looking  young  giant 
who  had  conducted  him  to  his  present  quarters.  Be- 
yond paying  a  passing  tribute  to  the  meal  she  had 
prepared  for  him,  he  thought  no  more  of  her. 

She  had  spoken  but  a  word  or  two  before  leaving 
the  room.  Now,  her  voice,  singularly  low  and  bell- 
toned,  recurred  to  his  memory,  dwelling  pleasantly 
in  his  ear.  He  experienced  a  desire  to  hear  those 
clear,  deep  tones  again. 

Curiosity  over  the  opposite  sex,  he  reminded  him- 
self, had  proved  the  beginning  of  final  disaster  to 
many  among  his  fellows.  No  woman's  man  —  be- 
cause of  a  youthful  disillusionment  —  Woodward 

34 


DIVIDED  35 

dismissed  the  weary-looking  drudge  from  his  thoughts 
as  he  ate  and  drank. 

A  little  girl,  with  richly-dark  auburn  curls  shad- 
ing her  wide,  innocent  eyes  and  whitely-rosy,  rounded 
face,  passed  through  the  room,  bestowing  an  intent 
scrutiny  upon  the  stranger. 

"Hullo I  little  one.  You  live  here,  do  you*?" 
he  questioned  in  friendly  fashion. 

Barbara  Brandon  opened  her  dark  eyes  in  child- 
like scornful  amaze. 

"Where  else  should  I  live*?"  she  demanded  im- 
patiently. 

"  Any  other  little  people  about? "  Woodward 
asked  pleasantly. 

Another  scornful  glance  alone  answered  his  query. 

"Not,  eh?  That's  bad  for  you;  Mr.  Brandon's 
daughter,  are  you?  —  or  granddaughter  I  should 
think  more  probably,"  suddenly  recollecting  the 
drudge  with  the  tuneful  voice. 

The  pretty  child's  scorn  gave  place  to  pity,  and 
she  grew  fluent  in  her  desire  to  instruct  this  very 
ignorant  grown-up. 

"We  haven't  any  grandchildren  here  since 
George's  little  ones  died.  George  is  my  brother  — 
didn't  you  see  him  over  at  the  stables?  He's  mar- 
ried, and  lives  at  the  Top  Farm;  but  his  dear  little 
babies  " —  her  tones  grew  earnest,  her  eyes  tragic 
—  "  are  buried  down  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 
We  have  such  a  sweet  little  cemetery  there,  full  of 
trees  and  flowers.  I'll  take  you  to  see  it.  She  held 
out  her  hand  confidingly  as  she  suddenly  promised 


36  DIVIDED 

the  kindly-faced  traveller  this  great  treat. 
"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  see  it*?  "  she  questioned,  with 
innocent  enthusiasm. 

"  Not  this  time,  I  am  afraid,"  Woodward  replied, 
smiling  at  her  strange  idea  of  a  treat.  He  took  the 
little,  plump  brown  hand  between  his  own,  and  look- 
ing into  the  dark,  greenish-grey,  jewel-bright  eyes 
of  the  child  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  noticed 
a  similar  glinting  gleam  in  the  eyes  of  the  pale-faced 
woman. 

"  Another  time  I  am  sure  I  should  enjoy  it  ex- 
tremely," he  assured  the  little  girl,  "  if  the  Fates  ever 
permit  of  my  return.  But  I  don't  know  what  to 
call  you " 

"  I  was  christened  Barbara  —  after  mother,"  she 
explained  importantly,  "  but  I  am  being  called  Babs 
till  I  grow  up ;  when  I  am  as  big  as  Margery " 

"  Babs !  Babs  I  "  the  voice  came  from  the  door- 
way, and  was  low,  forceful,  imperative.  Babs 
started,  and  withdrew  her  small,  moist  fingers  from 
Woodward's  grasp. 

"It's  Margery,"  she  explained;  "she's  calling 
me."  She  ran  from  the  room,  shaking  back  her 
tangle  of  hair  and  answering  the  call  in  a  clear,  child- 
ish treble:     "Yes,  Margey." 

"  What  a  pretty  child !  —  sweet  ways,  too.  Will 
she,  like  '  Margery '  of  the  haunting  voice,  grow  up 
to  the  lot  of  a  weary-eyed,  white-faced  drudge," 
Woodward  questioned,  as  he  rose  from  the  table  and 
made  his  way  to  the  smoke-room  used  by  the  travel- 
ling public. 


IV 


This  —  a  long,  low-ceiled  apartment  —  opened  out 
from  the  passage  which  ran  the  length  of  the  house. 
It  was  smoke-room,  bar-room,  and  general  zitkamer 
combined,  its  capacity  for  numbers  largely  assisted 
by  the  adjacent  stoep  on  to  which  both  a  door  and 
window  opened  directly. 

As  Woodward,  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  room, 
awaited  the  barman's  production  of  his  bill,  his  un- 
obtrusive but  penetrative  glances  took  note  of  the 
Boers  congregated  about  the  room  and  on  the  stoep 
—  lazing,  arguing,  smoking,  drinking. 

In  their  midst,  in  the  shirt-sleeves.  Thane  Brandon 
sat  astride  a  chair,  sparring  with  a  group  of  men  in 
corduroy  breeches  into  which  were  belted  flannel 
shirts.  On  their  unkempt,  sandy-coloured  heads 
were  set  wide-brimmed  smashers,  and  veldt-schoens 
covered  their  big,  flat  feet.  They  carried  sjamboks 
in  their  unwashed,  hairy  hands,  while  cartridge-belts 
and  rifles  were  slung  across  the  portly  forms  of  sev- 
eral among  their  number. 

"  Fact  is,"  said  one  burly  old  Boer  —  a  peaceful 
neighbour  to  the  Brandons,  judging  by  his  lack  of 
arms  — "  you're  a  burgher,  neef.  You've  taken 
the  oath  of  allegiance  to  Kruger,  and  though  your 

37 


38  DIVIDED 

blood  is  Engelsch  —  more's  the  pity  —  you  can't 
go  against  that  oath  without  being  a  traitor." 

"  Almachtig!  Brandon,"  interrupted  a  younger 
Boer,  armed  and  fiery-eyed,  "but  you're  a  blooded 
burgher,  tool  Haven't  you  and  I  fought  side  by 
side  for  Oom  Paul  in  the  nigger  wars'?  Nay,  never 
try  and  get  out  of  it,  man !  Kruger's  calling  for  you 
again;  onze  land  is  calling  for  you  again;  fight  you 
must,  since  you  are  here." 

Thane  tilted  his  head  defiantly. 

"  I'll  not  fight,  du,  Bruyn,"  he  said  calmly,  ad- 
dressing the  old  Boer,  "  neither  for  nor  against  Kru- 
ger.  A  burgher  I  am,  as  you  say,  but  I  am  an  Eng- 
lishman also." 

"  But  born  and  bred  in  the  Transvaal,"  the 
younger  Boer  interpolated  quickly. 

"  Heer!  "  growled  du  Bruyn,  removing  his  pipe 
from  between  his  grizzly-bearded  lips,  "but  they 
are  coming,  neef.  Don't  you  hear  what  these  fellows 
say.  The  Commandant  has  made  Petrus  Bouwer 
recruiting  sergeant,  and  he  is  on  the  trail  after  you 
and  George.  He  may  be  here  to-day,  to-morrow, 
any  day  now  —  enlisting  men  to  defend  the  North- 
ern Transvaal;  that's  what  the  Government's  after. 
They  may  spare  me  because  I  am  an  old  man,  and 
they'll  let  your  father  off  because  his  work  is  to  keep 
the  store  and  table  going  on  here;  but  you.  Thane 
Brandon,  burgher  to  Paul  Kruger,  they'll  not  over- 
look." 


DIVIDED  39 

"  I'll  fight  for  neither  Boer  nor  Briton,"  Thane 
repeated,  obstinately. 

"  Then  you'll  get  sjamboked  for  a  skulker,  or  scheit 
for  a  deserter  if  you  try  running  away,"  interposed 
a  thickset,  red-bearded  Boer  fiercely,  and  his  dirt- 
grimed  hands  fingered  the  rifle  slung  to  his  side. 

Thane's  steel-grey  eyes  gazed  upon  the  speaker 
contemptuously. 

"  Who's  running  away?  "  he  inquired,  politely. 

**  You  —  when  the  summons  comes  along," 
rapped  out  the  Dutchman. 

"  You  lie,  you  damned  fool  I  "  Thane  respondea 
with  quiet  emphasis,  getting  to  his  feet,  rising  slowly 
to  his  great  height. 

Hostile  faces  glared  at  him,  but  the  old  Boer 
waved  his  countrymen  aside  with  a  movement  of  his 
malodorous  black  clay. 

"  Let  the  youngster  alone,"  he  growled,  addressing 
them,  with  guttural  oaths  interlarding  his  speech,  in 
the  taal^  "  he'll  fight  right  enough  when  the  time 
comes.     The  dear  Lord  knows  he's  got  lots  of  fight 

in  him.     He's  worth  half  a  dozen  of  you  d d 

skulking  Transvaalers.  I've  known  him  ever  since 
he  was  born." 

Woodward,  his  bill  settled,  turned  to  leave  the 
room.  Lowering  looks  from  the  Boers  followed 
him.  Thane,  observing  these,  slowly  stalked  from 
the  apartment,  and  the  two  young  men  walked  to- 
gether in  the  direction  of  the  stables. 

"  Is  it  true?  "  asked  the  soldier.  "  Are  you  and 
your  brother  really  in  danger  of  being  enlisted'?  " 


40  DIVIDED 

"  If  those  damn  fellows  speak  the  truth  the  recruit- 
ing sergeant  and  his  men  may  be  here  any  moment 
now,"  Thane  returned  in  a  tone  of  irritability. 
"  Damn  it  all !  this  comes  of  the  licking  you  fellows 
are  giving  them.     Kruger  is  badly  off  for  men." 

"  But  surely  you  will  be  allowed  a  choice  —  Eng- 
lishmen, of  purely  British  descent?  " 

Thane  shrugged  his  broad  shoulders. 

"  It's  Hobson's  choice  —  fight,  or  have  a  bullet 
put  into  you  from  behind.  I  don't  worry  on  my  own 
account,"  he  added  carelessly,  "  I  can  very  easily 
give  'em  the  slip.  But  there's  George  —  my 
brother." 

His  arm  swung  in  the  direction  of  the  stables  and 
Woodward  looked  with  interest  at  the  tall,  golden- 
haired  young  man  standing  hatless  in  the  doorway. 
At  sight  of  that  pleasant,  open  face  with  the  calm, 
deeply-blue  eyes,  the  short,  trim  yellow  beard  and 
glinting  hair,  a  picture  drifted  before  Woodward's 
mind  which  he  failed  at  the  moment  to  identify. 

Thane  was  speaking  hesitatingly. 

"  Yes,  it  comes  rough  on  George  because  he  has 
a  wife  —  and  a  conscience." 

"A  Dutch  wife,  perhaps?"   asked  Woodward, 
shrewdly,  "  and  feels,  no  doubt,  that  he  ought  to 
defend  his  hearth  and  home  from  invasion?  " 
Thane  nodded. 

"  It's  damned  hard  I  Yes,  he  married  the  daugh- 
ter of  that  old  Dutchman  you  saw  smoking  in  the  bar 
• —  the  one  who  stood  up  for  me.    He  is  our  nearest 


DIVIDED  41 

neighbour.  We  were  born  in  this  place  —  George 
and  I  —  and  grew  up  with  his  girls  —  with  all  the 
girls  and  boys  in  the  district,  I  might  say.  They 
are  our  friends  —  all  of  them;  all  the  friends  we 
ever  have  had,  or  care  to  have,  for  that  matter  — 
we  know  no  others.  And,  now,  we  are  asked  to  stand 
up  and  shoot  at  'em,  or  shoot  at  our  own  blood- 
brothers,  or  be  shot  ourselves !  A  fine  position  this 
cursed  war  lands  us  in  —  and  others  like  ourselves." 

"  A  hard  case,"  repeated  Woodward  thoughtfully, 
and  said  no  more  for  now  they  had  reached  the  en- 
trance to  the  stables  from  out  of  which  his  horse 
was  being  led. 

George  Brandon  in  simple,  kindly  fashion  and  in 
pleasant  tones,  which  came  as  an  echo  of  the  wom- 
an's bell-toned  voice,  was  wishing  him  a  safe 
journey. 

"  Though  it  is  a  risky  fifty-mile  ride  you'll  have 
to  do.  We  hear  the  Irregulars  are  just  this  side  of 
the  river." 

"  I  have  escaped  thus  far  falling  into  the  Boer 
clutches,"  Woodward  replied,  "  so  hope  to  get  safely 
to  my  comrades  in  the  end." 

"You  were  left  —  where*?"  inquired  old  Bran- 
don, who  had  joined  his  sons. 

"  At  Tuli,  with  an  attack  of  fever.  And  now,'* 
Woodward  added,  addressing  the  brothers  as  he 
gathered  up  his  reins,  "  if  things  come  to  a  head  here 
why  not  join  us  till  the  crisis  is  over"?  You  would 
neither  be  asked  nor  expected  to  do  any  fighting," 


42  DIVIDED 

he  said,  with  a  kindly  look  at  George ;  "  your  position 
makes  it  impossible  for  you  to  take  sides.  Remem- 
ber, I  will  gladly  do  anything  I  can  for  you  and 
yours." 

"  Thanks  muchly,"  the  words  came  from  both 
Thane  and  his  father;  but  George  remained  silent, 
and  stood  for  a  few  moments  lost  in  thought,  a 
shadow  on  his  usually  fair,  unclouded  face,  the  while 
the  horse's  hoofs  of  the  departing  traveller  rang  out 
fainter  and  fainter,  until  lost  in  the  distance  of  the 
trail  leading  south. 


Along  the  broad,  well-worn,  rutty  high-road  lead- 
ing south,  across  the  monotonous  expanse  of  the  bare 
brown  plain,  past  boulder-strewn  kopjes  and  patches 
of  sand  and  scrub,  Philip  Woodward  rode  again  on 
the  track  of  his  comrades. 

His  thoughts,  which  should  have  been  centred 
upon  the  task  which  lay  before  him,  unwittingly 
again  and  again  escaped  his  control  and  returned  to 
lodge  beneath  the  roof-tree  of  the  post-house  at  the 
foot  of  the  overshadowing  mountain. 

They  lingered  around  the  family  bom  under  the 
roof -tree,  around  the  complications  which  had  arisen 
to  set  brother  against  brother,  friend  against  friend, 
neighbour  against  neighbour,  in  the  cruel  shadow  of 
the  Monster  that  had  crept  over  the  land. 

But,  like  bees  returning  to  and  settling  upon  some 
lowly,  unobtrusive  but  strangely-attractive  perfumed 
flower  nestling  close  to  mother-earth,  his  fancy  would 
stray  from  these  thoughts  to  return  to,  and  settle 
upon  the  image  of  the  young-old,  tired-faced  woman 
with  the  averted,  alluring,  greenish-grey  eyes  and  the 
haunting  tones. 

What  had  her  life  known  of  warmth,  ease,  colour, 
passion^     Her  blood-red  lips,  so  noticeable  against 

43 


44  DIVIDED 

the  pallor  of  her  skin,  seemed  to  bespeak  a  tempera- 
ment warm  and  emotional  beneath  the  cold  exterior 
of  a  rather  forbidding  mask.  When  she  had  moved 
before  him  with  supreme  unconsciousness,  her  face 
expressionless,  her  manner  prim,  her  attire  plain  and 
inelegant,  he  had  yet  been  strangely  conscious  of  be- 
ing in  the  presence  of  something  intangible,  puz- 
zling, interesting. 

Then,  almost  before  he  had  remarked  it,  she  had 
slipped  from  the  room,  and  excepting  that  he  had 
heard  the  low,  attractive  tones  calling  the  pretty 
child  he  had  heard  no  more  of  her. 

"  Babs  I  Babs  I  "  again  he  heard  her  voice  dis- 
tinctly and  reproached  himself  that  so  experienced 
an  amateur  of  human  nature,  as  he  prided  himself 
on  being,  should  have  allowed  some  hidden  force  and 
mystery  in  this  woman  to  have  escaped  the  more 
minute  observation  it  certainly  deserved. 

Her  brother,  with  the  Dutch  wife  and  the  con- 
science, he  could  now  easily  place.  Surely,  nowhere 
had  he  seen,  in  form,  appearance,  and  expression,  a 
closer  living  resemblance  to  Tennyson's  conception 
of  the  noblest  of  men.  His  lips  moved  as  he 
breathed  the  vision  thus  conjured  from  the  recesses 
of  his  brain : 

**  His  hair  a  sun  that  rayed  from  off  a  brow 
Like  hill-snow  high  in  heaven;  the  steel-blue  eyes, 
The  golden  beard  that  clothed  his  lips  with  light." 

He  thought  of  George  Brandon's  mighty  arms,  and 


DIVIDED  45 

chest  and  limbs.  He  thought  of  his  handsome,  hon- 
est face,  of  his  simple  sincerity,  genuine  kindness  and 
good  faith.  And  now  this  ghastly  crisis,  this  ugly 
dilemma  caused  by  the  war  had  arisen  to  cross  the 
daily  round  of  his  peaceful,  well-ordered  life,  and 
stood  confronting  him.  How,  under  these  preverse 
circumstances,  would  such  a  man  act*?  Woodward 
felt  he  would  give  something  to  know.  He  felt 
strangely  interested  in  each  and  every  member  of 
this  wayside  family,  living  out  their  lives  in  the 
solitary  remoteness  of  the  Transvaal  back-veldt. 

He  reflected  that  he  would  probably  never  hear 
or  see  more  of  them.  After  all,  what  was  the  real 
attraction  that  awoke  within  his  heart  the  desire  to 
hear  more  of  them?  He  admitted  the  provocation 
even  while  he  derided  it  —  it  was  the  sense  of  mys- 
tery that  hung  about  a  tired-looking,  white-faced 
drudge  I    He  laughed  aloud  and  felt  after  his  pipe. 

But,  still,  his  brain  revolved  around  the  possi- 
bilities of  her  history.  Had  she  known  the  fullness 
of  love  and  paled  beneath  its  stifling  embraces'?  Or 
had  she  loved  secretly  and  in  vain*?  Or  had  love 
come  to  her  only  in  dreams,  while  Time  was  snatch- 
ing from  her  the  reality  as  day  by  day  she  drudged, 
and  paled,  and  withered  to  early  decay  and  fall? 

Again  he  found  his  thoughts  centered  upon  the 
woman  at  the  post-house,  and  for  a  fleeting  moment 
he  considered  even  seriously  the  possibility  of  their 
future  meeting.  Then,  straightening  his  shoulders, 
he  told  himself  that  he  must  be  dreaming !     Impos- 


46  DIVIDED 

sible  that  he  should  ever  again  be  led  to  the  little 
post-house  on  the  veldt.  Already  the  Generals  down 
south  sat  together  considering  terms  of  peace.  Only 
too  probably  on  rejoining  his  comrades  it  would  be 
to  find  the  Irregulars  had  already  received  instruc- 
tions to  move  south,  the  first  step  in  their  final 
dispersion. 

Whistling,  he  defied  the  machinations  of  Fate  to 
entangle  the  threads  of  his  life  with  the  threads  of 
the  life  of  this  unknown  woman.  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  drew  himself  together,  and  once  again, 
with  set  purpose  to  think  no  more  of  the  matter, 
thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket  after  pipe  and  tobacco 
to  dull  his  too  fervid  imagination. 

And  turning  a  bend  in  the  track,  which  at  this 
point  diverged  to  the  left  of  the  donga  he  was  skirt- 
ing, he  rode  into  an  armed  patrol  consisting  of  the 
recruiting  sergeant  and  his  four  stalwart  attendants. 

"  Hands  up  I  "  cried  the  sergeant,  airing  with 
pride  his  scant  English  as  he  instantly  scented  a  foe, 
"  Hands  up;  or  I  fire  I  " 


VI 


The  silver-grey  radiance  that  is  generally  to  be 
found  on  the  darkest  night  in  Africa  had  fallen  on 
the  sleeping  plain  and  overhanging  mountain  when 
the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  clattering  into  the  stable- 
yard  broke  the  silence  reigning  around  the  precincts 
of  The  Outspan. 

The  group  of  men  left  in  the  bar  trooped  forth  on 
to  the  stoep.  George  and  Thane  Brandon  with  their 
father  and  old  du  Bruyn  crowded  around  the  steps 
leading  from  the  verandah  to  the  house  front. 
Drawn  up  before  them  as  they  peered  through  the 
darkness  was  the  form  of  Petrus  Bouwer,  the  recruit- 
ing sergeant,  followed  by  his  men.  They  moved 
towards  the  verandah  and  a  strange  spectacle  met  the 
eyes  of  the  watchers. 

Between  two  armed  troopers  rode  their  late  guest. 

The  men  dismounted  and  came  nearer  to  the  stoep, 
leading  their  sweating  horses. 

"Hullo!  What  the  devil's  tjie  row,  Bouwer?" 
Thane  called  out,  arrogantly. 

The  young  Boer  put  forth  a  limp  hand,  and  with 
the  single  word  "  dag  "  went  the  round  of  the  com- 
pany. 

Then  he  turned  and  pointed  at  the  prisoner. 

47 


48  DIVIDED 

"  This  man  belongs  to  the  enemy.  If  he  will  give 
his  parole  not  to  attempt  escape,  I  shall  leave  him  at 
The  Outspan.  If  not  —  "  the  sergeant  spat  con- 
temptuously and  made  a  motion  with  his  hairy  hand 
toward  his  rifle. 

Thane  came  down  the  steps.  His  hands  in  his 
trousers  pockets,  he  lounged  across  to  where  Wood- 
ward still  sat  in  the  saddle. 

"What  will  you  do*?"  he  asked  in  a  lowered 
voice;  then  added  significantly,  "Surrender  on  pa- 
role, eh?" 

Captain  Woodward  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Seems  I  must,"  he  murmured  resignedly.  As  he 
got  himself  out  of  the  saddle  he  bowed  to  the  tri- 
umph of  Destiny.  "  Our  turn  will  come,  though," 
he  told  Thane. 

Despite  the  chill  of  the  winter  night,  the  blood 
surged  hotly  through  his  body.  He  was  elated,  yet 
annoyed ;  pleased  to  have  the  chance  of  bettering  his 
acquaintance  with  a  family  in  whose  immediate 
future  he  already  felt  a  keen  interest,  yet  displeased 
at  finding  his  plans  upset  and  fearing,  almost  uncon- 
sciously, to  encounter  disillusion  and  disappointment. 
Many  a  man  before  him  had  found  his  swans  mere 
geese. 

Now  he  had  given  his  parole  to  Sergeant  Bouwer 
and  that  painstaking  officer  of  the  Republic  was  ad- 
dressing Brandon,  who  stood  stupefied,  recognizing 
in  this  young  man  whom  he  had  known  from  infancy 
the  dreaded  recruiting  sergeant. 


DIVIDED  49' 

"  So  they've  given  you  the  job,  have  they, 
Bouwer^  "  Thane  asked,  with  careless  contempt  in 
his  tones. 

Bouwer,  taking  no  notice  of  this  pleasantry  from 
an  old  chum,  continued  addressing  the  elder 
Brandon : 

"  I  hand  over  this  Engelschman  —  taken  in  arms 
against  the  Republic  —  to  your  charge,  Mynheer 
Brandon.  Guard  him  well,  for  you  answer  with 
your  life  to  the  Commandant  for  his  escape." 

Brandon  looked  hard  at  the  prisoner  thus  thrust 
upon  him.    Woodward  advanced,  raising  his  cap. 

"  Have  no  uneasiness,  Mr.  Brandon,"  he  said, 
pleasantly,  "  I  am  here  to  stay." 

"  We  will  fix  you  up  as  comfortably  as  we  can," 
Brandon  replied,  relieved  by  the  tone  and  bearing  of 
his  guest. 

He  turned  to  the  sergeant : 

"  Your  work  is  done,  Bouwer.  Come  in  and  have 
a  drink." 

Bouwer  hesitated,  then  dug  his  hand  into  the  wal- 
let hanging  to  his  saddle  and  pulled  out  a  dirty-white 
paper. 

"  Fact  is,  Mynheer  Brandon,"  he  began,  discard- 
ing in  his  new  importance  the  life-long  Oom; 
"  fact  is  I  have  another  duty  to  perform.  We  over- 
took this  Engelschman  as  we  were  on  our  way  here  on 
official  duty.  This  proclamation  I  have  orders  to 
read  at  every  farmhouse  in  the  district." 

He  opened  out  the  paper,  raised  it  in  his  hands. 


so  DIVIDED 

and  held  it  an  angle  upon  which  the  light  from  the 
lantern  hanging  in  the  verandah  fell  direct. 

"  Damn  your  proclamation  I "  said  Brandon, 
slowly,  with  a  bitter  intensity  that  was  caught  up  and 
echoed  by  every  man  among  the  group  surrounding 
him.    He  turned  his  back  on  the  Sergeant. 

"  By  order  of  the  Republic,"  Bouwer  spouted 
glibly,  *'  To  the  loyal  and  faithful  Burghers  of  Pau- 
lus  Johannes  Kruger,  President " 

In  wooden,  sing-song  tones  he  waded  through  the 
specially  prepared  form  to  which  the  names  of  the 
young  Brandons  had  been  appended.  They  were 
warned  to  hold  themselves  in  readiness  to  join  the 
Republican  forces  at  any  moment  when  called  upon 
so  to  do.  In  consideration  of  this  they  might  retain 
their  horses  and  rifles;  but  should  they  fail,  when 
summoned,  to  report  themselves  at  their  respective 
posts  within  twenty-four  hours  these  would  imme- 
diately be  seized  by  the  Government,  all  their  pos- 
sessions would  be  confiscated,  and  they  themselves 
would  incur  the  penalty  of  death  as  traitors  to  their 
country. 

In  consideration  of  his  services  to  the  Republic 
as  manager  of  The  Outspan,  Brandon  senior  would 
be  exempt  from  service. 

So  ran  the  proclamation,  and  it  was  received  by 
the  inmates  of  the  post-house  in  a  silence  more  em- 
phatic than  words. 

Once  more  Bouwer  dived  into  the  wallet  to  draw 
forth   a   second   dirty-white   paper,    to  which   was 


DIVIDED  •  51 

affixed,  In  rude  sprawling  caligraphy,  the  name  of 
Jan  du  Bmyn. 

The  grey-bearded,  burly  old  Boer,  his  pipe  be- 
tween his  lips,  his  fleshy,  unwashed  hands  clutching 
the  top  rail  of  the  verandah,  stood  stolidly  eyeing  the 
recruiting  sergeant. 

"  Heer! "  Bouwer  observed  in  an  undertone  to 
his  attendants.  "  I  like  not  the  look  of  these  folk. 
Keep  your  arms  ready  in  case  of  accidents." 

Then,  clearing  his  throat,  he  again  read  aloud  the 
proclamation.  But  to  this  document  was  affixed  the 
name  of  Jan  du  Bruyn  of  du  Bruyn's  Rust,  neigh- 
bour to  Brandon  of  The  Outspan. 

The  blow  fell  in  full  force.  The  old  Boer  grew 
rigid  with  anger,  hot  with  apprehension.  He  had 
felt  so  certainly  that  his  three-score-and-ten  years 
would  excuse  him.  His  hand  shook  as  he  endeav- 
oured to  remove  the  pipe  from  his  mouth.  The 
brown,  highly-seasoned  clay  fell  to  the  stone-paved 
floor  of  the  verandah  and  crashed  to  atoms. 

Jan  du  Bruyn's  florid  face  paled,  his  light  blue 
eyes  bulged.  He  leaned  heavily  on  the  rail,  con- 
scious through  all  his  stunned  amazement  that  the 
eyes  of  all  present  were  fixed  upon  him. 

"Me,  is  it?"  he  gasped  at  last.  "M^,  Petrus 
Bouwer,  who  was  a  boy  together  with  your  dead 
father,  that  you  are  reading  papers  over  to  go  out 
and  fight?  Man,"  he  raised  a  pointing  hand,  "  are 
all  our  burghers  killed  off  that  Paul  Kruger  is  calling 


52  DIVIDED 

out  the  grey-beards  who  have  borne  the  heat  and  bur- 
den of  the  day  for  well-nigh  four-score  years?  " 

He  stood  resting  heavily  on  the  supporting  rail, 
his  burly  frame  bowed  and  quivering,  his  eyes  threat- 
ening, his  hand  upraised,  as  he  peered  across  the  dim 
space  that  separated  him  from  the  young  Boer.  Out 
of  the  house  trooped  the  women  folk  and  such  of  the 
house-servants  as  had  crept  back  to  the  post-house 
under  cover  of  darkness.  Even  the  barman  left  his 
deserted  corner  and  came  forward  to  join  the  rest. 

"Man,"  Bouwer  called  back,  amid  the  tense 
silence  of  the  listeners,  "  the  Republic  is  calling 
grandsires  of  ninety  and  boys  of  nine  I  You  may 
never  be  summoned " 

"And  if  I  am,  Petrus  Bouwer*?"  bellowed  out 
the  angry  man. 

"  Then,  Jan  du  Bruyn,  you  must  go  I "  shouted 
back  the  other. 

"  Or ?  "  demanded  du  Bruyn  fiercely. 

"  Or  you  are  branded  traitor,  Jan  du  Bruyn." 

"  Thanks,  Petrus  —  in  your  dead  father's  name  I 
thank  you  for  that  word.  But  what  of  Majuba, 
when  I  fought  by  his  side*?  " 

"  That  does  not  count  here,  OotnP 

"  Nor  of  the  nigger  wars,  neef  —  again  and  again, 
since  I  was  but  a  lad  of  fifteen?  " 

"They  count  nothing  against  this  last  summons 
from  your  country." 

"  Soh " 

Hurried  footsteps,  a  swish  of  skirts,  a  wail  from 


DIVIDED  53 

the  background,  agitated  the  sudden  pause  in  hostili- 
ties. A  snarl  like  the  snarl  of  an  angry  cat,  an  ex- 
plosive cry  of  wrath  and  pain,  and  Bouwer  found 
himself  confronted  by  three  angry  countrywomen. 
Like  a  solid  wall  of  defence  they  interposed  their 
persons  between  himself  and  du  Bruyn.  He  knew 
these  women,  had  known  them  all  his  life.  The 
corpulent,  asthmatic  Xante  Jacoba  was  the  grey- 
beard's better  half,  the  two  handsome  young  women 
were  the  daughters  of  the  old  couple.  One  of  them 
he  had  desired  and  sought  in  marriage. 

But,  now 

It  was  she,  George  Brandon's  young  wife,  who 
was  the  first  to  attack  him.  She  tossed  back  the 
wealth  of  yellow  hair  that  hung  loosely  about  her 
smooth,  fair  brow  and  shrilled  disdainfully: 

"Fie  then!  aren't  you  'shamed?  So  it  is  you^ 
Petrus  Bouwer,  who  would  bring  dirty  papers  here 
to  send  Pa  to  fight*?  Go  and  fight  yourself  and 
leave  old  men  to  look  after  the  women  and  farms." 

"  I  am  fighting,  Aletta,"  began  Bouwer,  apolo- 
getically; but  Johanna,  the  younger  sister,  cut  him 
short. 

"  Fighting,  are  you?  Heer!  it  looks  to  us  as 
though  you  are  on  a  softer  job  altogether  —  riding 
round  the  country,  serving  papers  on  old  men.  You 
shan't  get  Pa,  though." 

"  Never !  "  snorted  Mrs.  du  Bruyn,  catching  him 
by  the  coat-cuff  and  swaying  his  arm  unpleasantly 
to  and  fro.     "  Never,  I  say,  Petrus  Bouwer !  you 


54  DIVIDED 

don't  touch  my  old  man,  not  if  I've  got  to  shoot  you 
myself  with  your  own  roer!  Heer!  man,  never  start 
back;  I'm  not  going  to  do  it  —  not  till  someone  tries 
to  carry  off  my  man.  And  hear  my  words,  neef! 
Didn't  the  Lord  give  you  a  good  old  mother  and 
father  that  you  must  needs  be  doing  this  devil's 
work,  shaming  the  old  folk  in  their  graves'?  Think, 
if  they  were  alive  this  day,  would  you  be  serving 
papers  on  your  white-haired  father  —  and  he  to  be 
torn  from  your  mother  in  their  old  age?  Never! 
You  could  not  do  it  I  your  own  mother  would  curse 
you  I  " 

"Tear  up  that  paper,  Bouwer,"  Aletta  Brandon 
said  more  softly,  sidling  closer  to  him;  "  the  Repub- 
lic will  be  none  the  wiser." 

"  Yes,"  added  her  husband,  who  had  joined  the 
group  round  Bouwer,  "  we  are  all  friends  here." 

Bouwer  glanced  nervously  at  his  attendants. 

"  The  Commandant "  he  began,  hesitat- 
ingly.    Then  his  tones  grew  firmer : 

"  I've  read  the  proclamation,  and  I'll  be  hanged 
if  I  stop  here  arguing  with  a  lot  of  laggards  and 
rebels,^*  his  loud  tones  were  significant.  "  Mount, 
men,"  he  added,  turning  to  his  escort. 

He  raised  his  foot  to  the  stirrup.  Aletta  in  an 
instant  swung  herself  forward,  and  caught  at  his 
arm. 

"  Spare  my  father,  Bouwer,"  she  entreated. 
"  Think,  man,  I'm  giving  up  my  husband  I  I'm 
sending  the  Boer  army  a  brave  Englishman,  a  clever 


DIVIDED  $s 

one,  too,  to  help  them  in  their  fight  against  England ! 
How  many  Boer  women,  I  wonder,  can  say  as  much? 
In  return,  tear  up  the  paper  with  Pa's  name  on  it  and 
say  nothing." 

Bouwer  looked  down  into  her  fair,  upturned  face 
with  her  flashing  blue  eyes  now  burning  with  hot 
entreaty.  She  was  begging  a  favour  of  him.  Not 
long  since,  he  told  himself,  and  he  would  have 
granted  any  request  of  hers  within  his  power,  to  win 
her  for  himself.  Now  she  was  the  wife  of  his  rival. 
He  muttered  in  the  taal  she  must  be  satisfied  to  wait 
...  he  might  .  . .  perchance  in  the  future  .  .  .  She 
stepped  back,  content. 

"  What  is  that  you  are  saying,  Aletta*?  "  her  hus- 
band asked  in  surprise. 

She  drew  him  on  one  side. 

"You  will  go,  to  save  my  father,  George?  " 

"  Don't  ask,  my  girl.     I  am  an  Englishman." 

"  But  a  burgher  —  Kruger's  subject.  George, 
you  will  fight  for  our  country  —  yours  and  mine?  " 

Never  before  had  she  asked  the  question  outright. 
Though  the  matter  secretly  had  long  troubled  hus- 
band and  wife,  it  had  remained  undiscussed  by  either. 
Aletta  had  feared  the  certainty  of  a  refusal ;  George 
Brandon  had  arrived  at  no  decision. 

Now  he  spoke  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment : 

"  How  can  I  fight  my  own  race  and  blood?  I'll 
not  do  it." 

"  You  will  fight  for  our  people,  for  our  country, 
for  the  safety  of  your  own  home,  and  family,  and 


56  DIVIDED 

possessions  or  Aletta  du  Bruyn  will  never  more  be 
wife  to  you,"  the  young  Boer  woman  cried  im- 
pulsively. 

"Aletta " 

He  spoke  her  name  softly,  resting  his  hand  on  her 
arm.  She  flung  it  off  impatiently  and  with  a  mut- 
tered threat  joined  her  parents  on  the  stoep. 

Amid  a  chorus  of  choice  taal  oaths  and  anathe- 
mas, culled  chiefly  from  the  Scriptures  and  freely 
showered  upon  him  by  the  company,  Petrus  Bouwer, 
a  peculiar  smirk  of  content  playing  around  his 
bearded  lips,  rode  out  of  the  yard,  followed  by  the 
Boer  patrol. 


VII 


As  the  sound  of  the  beat  of  their  horses'  hoofs  on  the 
hard  road  died  gradually  away,  George  Brandon, 
taking  no  adieu  of  the  chattering  group  vehemently 
discussing  the  situation,  passed  silently  through  the 
house  and  out  by  way  of  the  back  verandah  into  the 
garden,  and  so  down  the  familiar  pathway  that  led 
to  his  home. 

Light  steps,  hurrying  after  ,him,  caused  him  to 
pause  ere  crossing  the  rustic  bridge  that  spanned  the 
stream  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  and  linked  the 
post-house  to  the  Top  Farm  homestead  lying  against 
the  mountain-side. 

But  the  steps  were  too  light  to  be  long  mistaken 
for  the  more  masculine  tread  of  the  heavy-built 
Aletta.  It  was  Margery's  voice  that  called  through 
the  night: 

"  You  are  not  going  off  without  Aletta,  George*?  " 
she  asked  breathlessly,  coming  up  to  him.  In  the 
moonshine  her  face  raised  to  his  appeared  white  and 
youthful  again. 

George  turned  from  her  in  the  direction  of  his 
home. 

"  She'll  follow  —  when  tliey  have  talked  things 

57 


58  DIVIDED 

over.  I  must  get  home;  there's  only  old  Sanna  and 
a  raw  girl  left  to  see  to  everything." 

Margery  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  to  detain  him. 

"  George,"  she  said  presently,  and  there  was  that 
in  her  tone  that  went  to  his  heart,  "  Don't  . .  don't 

Her  voice  failed  her,  but  he  understood  and  an- 
swered slowly: 

"  I  must  do  what  I  think  right,  Margey." 

Even  as  he  spoke  he  felt  the  relief  of  words. 
Though  blamed,  though  misunderstood  by  all  his 
world,  he  knew  that  he  could  rely  on  his  sister  for 
perfect  comprehension,  for  unbounded  sympathy  and 
loyal,  generous  support  whatever  his  decision  might 
be. 

"  Don't  think  only  of  what  is  right,"  she  broke 
out  vehemently,  "  think  of  us,  too.  It's  not  only 
your  safety  .  .  .  your  life,  perhaps  ...  it's  our  lives 
as  well  —  father's,  mine,  Thane's.  " 

He  stooped  and  put  his  arm  about  her  shoulders. 

"  Don't  worry  now  . .  I  must  think  it  over,  old 
girl.  Life  seems  suddenly  to  have  become  too  big  a 
complication  for  plain  straight-going  chaps  out  here 
—  English-Transvaalers,  as  we  Brandons  are;  we 
must  just  do  our  duty  and  leave  the  tangle.  " 

He  broke  off,  then  allowed  her  kiss  and  was  gone. 
With  choking  breath  and  a  strained  look  on  her  white 
face  his  sister  watched  him  cross  the  bridge  and  climb 
the  opposite  slope  that  led  by  an  easy  ascent  along 
the  winding  track  up  the  mountain-side  to  the  half- 
way plateau  on  which  the  homestead  was  built. 


DIVIDED  59 

Then,  with  a  stifled  sigh  and  a  hard  word  thrown 
at  the  war,  she  returned  to  the  house. 

But  George,  shaking  aside  his  disquieting  thoughts 
as  he  opened  the  gate  in  the  hedge  that  separated  the 
frontage  of  the  farm-house  from  the  track  which  con- 
tinued its  winding  course  up  the  mountain-side, 
passed  within  and  applied  himself  to  the  tasks  im- 
mediately before  him.  In  the  farmyard  the  cows 
were  lowing  over  the  bush-fence  that  separated  them 
from  their  young,  shut  up  in  the  calf  pen.  The  calves 
were  wailing  in  return,  amazed  at  the  long-delayed 
milking-hour. 

"  How  is  this,  Sanna?  "  inquired  the  master,  ad- 
dressing the  old  native  woman  whom  he  found 
crouching  before  the  fire  in  the  snug,  warm  kitchen 
of  the  farmhouse.    *'  No  milking  done  yet?  " 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  spreading  out  her  hands. 

"  No  boys,  baas ;  him  very  flighten  of  Boers  — 
come  back  p'laps  by-m-by,"  she  explained  in  broken 
English. 

"Well,  we  must  manage  without  them  to-night; 
I  hope  they'll  be  back  in  the  morning;  no  Boers 
about,  Sanna." 

She  shook  her  head  incredulously. 

"  Boer  fightin*  man  vely  slim,  baas." 

"  Well,  bring  the  buckets  to  the  kraal"  com- 
manded her  master  as  he  hastily  left  the  house,  strid- 
ing towards  the  pens  of  the  impatient  animals;  and 
wondering  in  their  own  minutely  subtle  fashion  as 


6o  DIVIDED 

to  what  had  become  of  the  "  missis."  Sanna  and  the 
raw  girl,  taking  down  the  shining  pails  from  their 
shelves,  followed  silently. 

By  the  time  the  cows  were  milked,  the  calves  fed 
and  housed,  the  grunting,  squealing  pigs  supplied 
with  a  late  supper,  and  the  recreant  fowls  —  who, 
with  strange  perversity,  preferred  roosting  in  the 
bush  to  roosting  upon  the  perches  within  their  own 
stoutly-built  poultry-run  —  had  been  collected  and 
locked  therein  safe  from  the  attentions  of  the  wild- 
cat or  an  occasional  stray  jackal,  the  silvery  rim  of 
the  quarter  moon  was  dipping  below  the  horizon  and 
the  great  stars  were  stabbing  points  of  radiance  more 
clearly  upon  the  dark,  velvety  pall  of  the  sky. 
George,  walking  back  to  the  house,  rested  for  a  mo- 
ment on  the  doorstep,  lifting  his  eyes  to  the  dim  out- 
line of  World's  View,  as  the  culminating  point  of 
the  mountain  —  a  flat,  boulder-strewn  height  —  was 
locally  named.  Through  the  density  of  the  early 
night  it  appeared  to  overshadow  the  homestead  with 
a  certain  dark  menace.  Tired  and  troubled,  he 
shifted  his  gaze  still  higher,  and  the  silence  of  the 
night,  with  the  myriad  of  purple,  radiating  star- 
clusters  overhead,  brought  a  sense  of  protection  and 
comfort  to  his  heart.  God's  heaven  was  above  him. 
Nothing  in  Nature  was  changed.  His  own  personal 
relations  alone  were  disorganized  and  violently  dis- 
rupted.    His  life  had  reached  a  crisis. 

He  entered  the  house.  The  old  woman  had  lit 
the  lamp  in  the  dining-room,  had  kindled  a  wood  fire 


DIVID:ED  6i 

on  the  open  hearth  and  set  the  supper  as  usual.  For 
two?  —  then  she  evidently  expected  the  return  of  her 
mistress,  thought  George,  and  this  trivial  circum- 
stance brought  relief.  He  glanced  again  at  the 
spread  table,  then  passed  into  the  bath-room  adjoin- 
ing the  bedroom  and  washed  his  hands.  He  felt 
chilly,  glanced  at  his  shirt-sleeves,  and  suddenly  re- 
membered having  left  his  coat  hanging  on  a  hook  out- 
side the  stables  at  The  Outspan.  Bouwer's  advent 
was  responsible  for  this  unusual  absence  of  mind,  he 
meditated. 

Mechanically  he  moved  into  the  bedroom,  op>ened 
the  wardrobe,  and  taking  out  a  tweed  Norfolk  coat 
proceeded  to  don  it.  As  his  arms  moved  he  glanced 
from  side  to  side  through  the  dimness,  as  though 
striving  to  convince  himself  that  his  missing  wife 
was  there.  Never  before  at  this  hour  had  she  been 
absent  from  his  side.  Never  before  had  he  sat  lonely 
to  his  evening  meal.  The  thought  that  she  might 
refuse  to  return  unconditionally  was  gall  and  worm- 
wood to  the  young  man.  The  war  would  pass, 
peace  would  come  again  to  the  land,  but  never  again 
to  the  household  in  which  the  conflict  had  put  asun- 
der the  love  of  man  and  wife.  With  Aletta's  love 
turned  to  scorn,  his  life  would  be  bereft,  his  home 
desolate. 

"  The  baas  must  come  and  eat;  see,  I  have  brought 
in  the  broiled  chops  from  the  fat  buck  the  baas  shot 
before  sun-up  yesterday,  and  the  fried  potatoes  and 
the  coffee."     Old  Sanna's  voice  roused  hin}  from  his 


62  DIVIDED  ' 

unbearable  thoughts.  She  stood  in  the  doorway,  with 
the  lighted  candle  in  her  hand  showing  up  the  patient 
expression  on  her  chocolate-brown  face  and  a  look 
of  mingled  anxiety  and  curiosity  in  her  coal-black 
eyes.  George  made  a  motion  with  his  hand,  then 
followed  her  retreating  form  into  the  dining-room. 

Supper  over,  he  selected  a  briar  from  the  rack 
above  the  chimney-piece,  and  drawing  up  the  deep 
leather  arm-chair  closer  before  the  fire  fell  again  into 
a  similar  train  of  thought.  But,  now,  he  resolutely 
pushed  aside  the  question  of  Aletta's  attitude,  of  her 
return,  and  applied  himself  to  threshing  out  the 
supremely  important  matter  of  his  duty  at  the  crisis 
which  had  now  presented  itself  —  a  matter  which 
he  knew  he  must  face  and  decide  upon  without  fur- 
ther delay. 

He  was  a  man  embued  with  a  high  conception  of 
duty.  What  was  his  duty,  he  now  asked  himself, 
in  the  present  unprecedented  state  of  affairs'?  His 
country  was  invaded  by  an  enemy  who  were  daily 
advancing  upon  them;  the  very  hearth  before  which 
he  sat,  the  roof-tree  which  sheltered  him,  his  farm- 
stead, his  cattle,  his  crops  —  all  began  to  be  in  im- 
minent danger  of  destruction  and  pillage  at  the 
hands  of  these  invaders  unless  he  and  his  fellow- 
burghers  kept  them  at  bay.  Setting  aside  all  per- 
sonal considerations,  he  was  a  son  of  the  land  to 
whom  that  land  was  dear.  Setting  altogether  on 
one  side  the  woman  he  loved,  he  felt  he  should  join 
his  countrymen-in-arms  solely  because  he  conceived 


DIVIDED  63 

it  to  be  his  duty  so  to  do.  Setting  aside  his  family, 
to  whom  he  was  devotedly  attached,  he  felt  that  he 
would  desist  from  joining  the  forces  of  the  Republic 
only  because  he  was  persuaded  that  this  was  not  his 
duty.  George  Brandon  was  too  well  versed  in  the 
affairs  of  the  Old  Country  to  be  ignorant  of  the 
supreme  fact  that  in  the  end  British  force  must  prove 
victorious,  yet  there  remained  with  the  young  man 
the  aspiration  of  every  free-born  Northern  Trans- 
vaaler  —  the  endeavour  to  keep  the  enemy  at  bay, 
so  that  as  Boers  of  the  vast  tract  of  country  lying 
afar  from  the  centre  of  hot  strife  they  might  be 
found  an  unconquered  people,  their  rifles  in  their 
hands,  their  homesteads  intact,  when  the  song  of. 
Peace  was  sung. 

That  song  could  not  now  be  long  delayed ;  should 
the  burghers  of  the  Northern  Transvaal,  then,  unite 
in  this  patriotic  endeavour  the  possibilities  were  that 
they  might  be  successful,  thus  preserving  their  own 
personal  liberty,  their  wives  and  families  from  the 
dreaded  concentration  camps,  their  homes  and  farms 
from  destruction,  and  handing  down  to  all  future 
posterity  a  glorious  record  of  self-defence  against  the 
invasions  of  a  common  foe. 

Should  he  evade  this  duty  patent  to  every  burgher 
among  the  scattered  community?  He  felt  at  heart 
that  he  could  not  do  so  and  retain  his  self-respect,  his 
simple  standard  of  duty.  Embued  with  a  lofty 
ideal  of  duty  as  an  integral  part  of  that  highest  in 
life  which  was  bound  up  with  all  of  the  simple  re- 


64  DIVIDED 

ligion  learned  at  his  mother's  knee,  George  Brandon 
was  also  a  son  of  the  land  to  whom  that  mother-land 
was  dear.  Duty,  patriotism,  affection,  every  high- 
est instinct  of  his  manhood  called  upon  him  to  join 
in  her  defence  at  this  sharp  crisis  in  her  history. 

But  there  remained  for  his  consideration  the 
almost  untenable  situation  that  the  men  against 
whom  he  must  take  up  arms  were  of  his  nationality 
and  kin;  blood-brothers  to  Thane  and  himself,  sub- 
jects of  the  Empire  beneath  whose  flag  his  parents, 
his  forbears  for  generations  past,  had  been  born  and 
bred,  had  lived  and  served  and  died ! 

Should  he  take  up  arms  against  Britain  his  father 
could  not  but  suffer  grievously.  Thane,  he  felt,  was 
already  fiercely  embittered  against  their  old  friends 
and  neighbours,  against  the  Boers  as  a  people, 
simply  from  an  unbearable  fear  and  dread  lest  the 
brother  he,  in  his  own  tempestuous  fashion,  loved 
and  honoured  so  deeply  should  join  the  burgher 
ranks. 

Was  it  his  duty  thus  to  grieve  and  embitter  his 
own  people? 

The  thought  of  Margery  came  to  him  as  a  fresh 
blow.  She,  he  knew,  cared  not  a  rap  for  either  Boer 
or  Briton  in  comparison  with  the  supreme  fact  of  his 
joining  in  the  conflict.  Her  fear  was  alone  for  his 
safety;  and,  looking  into  past  years,  recalling  the 
past  tragedy  that  had  drawn  the  sister  and  brother 
so  closely  together,  George  Brandon  felt  a  terrible 
doubt,  a  keen  anxiety,  as  to  how,  without  his  con- 


DIVIDED  65 

tinued  presence  and  sympathy  and  daily  companion- 
ship, his  sister  —  changed  by  a  cruel  experience 
from  headstrong,  wilful  girlhood  to  embittered, 
disillusioned  womanhood  —  would  find  the  patience 
to  live  out  the  grey,  loveless,  unmated  years  of  the 
future. 

Weighing  these  considerations  against  the  claims 
of  duty,  the  young  man  asked  himself  in  all  sin- 
cerity whether  he  ought  to  join  in  his  country's  de- 
fence. Or  again,  was  it  not  his  duty  to  remain  and 
care  for  his  people  *? 

But  his  country's  need  for  the  service  of  each  and 
every  one  of  her  loyal  sons  again  cried  loudly  and 
insistently  in  his  ears,  and  pushing  aside  his  chair 
he  rose,  leaning  his  elbow  on  the  tall,  narrow  mantel. 
His  head  dropped  on  his  arm,  his  eyes  —  down-bent 
—  gazed  into  the  red  of  the  smouldering  logs.  Voice- 
less, he  yet  petitioned  for  guidance  in  the  simply- 
sincere,  direct  fashion  upon  which  his  life  from  child- 
hood upward  had  been  moulded. 

A  sound  without  as  of  approaching  footsteps 
quickened  his  pulses.  The  dogs  barked  suddenly, 
then  fell  into  quiet,  a  sure  sign  that  they  welcomed 
a  friend. 

Aletta,  followed  by  Johanna,  entered  the  room. 

The  two  sisters  presented  that  contrasting  type  in 
form,  colouring  and  feature  so  frequently  to  be  found 
among  Dutch  South  African  families,  with  their 
admixture  of  Hollander  and  French  blood.  Aletta 
was  a  typical  Hollander,  with  the  fair,  ruddy  skin. 


66  DIVIDED 

large  light-blue  eyes  —  set  below  pale  eyebrows  and 
encircled  by  a  tawny  tangle  of  hair  —  and  heavily- 
built  frame  of  her  countrywomen.  In  the  moment 
of  her  entry,  her  deepened  colour  and  the  fire  in  her 
blue  eyes  added  to  her  youthful  attractiveness  as 
she  stood  in  the  doorway  looking  silently  towards 
her  husband.  Over  her  shoulder  was  framed  the 
clear,  olive-tinted  oval  of  Johanna's  more  delicately- 
cut  face.  Her  black  arched  brows  and  dark  mass 
of  hair  surmounted  a  pair  of  wondrously  soft  South- 
ern eyes.  Pity  for  George  looked  out  of  those  slum- 
brous, white-lidded,  dark-lashed  eyes.  He  was  the 
man  to  whose  brother  the  Dutch  girl  had  given  her 
love,  whom  she  had  come  to  worship  with  all  the 
fierce  abandon  of  the  Gallic  in  her  blood  —  a  pas- 
sion beyond  reason  or  control. 

"  Aletta*?  "  George  said  slowly,  questioningly,  his 
voice  breaking  the  spell  of  silence  that  hung  over 
the  three. 


VIII 

As  he  called  her  name  he  turned  to  face  her  more 
directly,  and  his  deep-set  eyes,  of  so  pure  and  soft  a 
blue,  contrasted  strikingly  with  the  hard  glare  of  her 
intent  gaze. 

"  Aletta  —  "  his  voice  was  persuasive  —  "  you 
are  late,  my  girl.  I  was  getting  a  bit  anxious,  think- 
ing of  going  to  look  you  up.  Thanks,  Jo,  for  bring- 
ing her.  " 

He  spoke  with  an  effort  at  repressing  all  signs  of 
his  late  disquieting  reflections;  of  that  abrupt,  un- 
satisfactory parting  outside  the  post-house.  He 
stood  facing  her,  his  back  to  the  fireplace,  one  hand 
holding  the  smoking  briar. 

The  air  of  the  room  was  heavy  with  its  fragrance; 
heavy,  too,  with  those  silent  but  tumultuous  forces 
that  were  at  work  within  the  consciousness  of  all 
three.  The  crisis  all  recognized  was  at  hand.  That 
the  man  would  decide  the  issue  according  to  the 
dictates  of  his  conscience,  both  women  instinctively 
admitted. 

Johanna  gave  her  sister  a  shove  that  sent  her  fur- 
ther into  the  room. 

"  Yes,  I've  brought  her,"  she  said,  feigning  a 
jocularity  she  did  not  at  the  moment  feel.     "  Take 

67 


68  DIVIDED 

her,  George ;  keep  her,  beat  her  if  you  must,  or  tie  her 
up;  but  for  heaven's  sake,  don't  let  her  get  gadding 
round,  listening  to  nonsense  and  talking  rubbish. 
My  word!  but  what  a  flow  of  cackle  these  young 
married  women  can  pour  out  about  nothing  at  all."^ 

George  advanced  and  put  his  arm  round  Aletta's 
plump  shoulders. 

"  No,  Johanna,  I  need  not  tie  her  up,  for  she  will 
never  desert  her  man.  Come,  Aletta,  how  tired  you 
look  and  so  cold  I  "  he  took  her  hands  in  his.  "  Come, 
sit  in  the  arm-chair  and  get  warm,  little  woman." 

Though  Aletta  could  not  boast  of  her  husband's 
six  foot  odd,  she  was  a  tall  woman,  generously  pro- 
portioned as  to  limb  and  bulk;  yet  she  was  to  the 
lover  who  had  watched  her  growth  through  the  years 
of  childhood  and  young  womanhood,  and  who  had 
never  known  the  time  when  he  did  not  love  her,  still, 
as  ever,  his  "  little  one." 

Aletta  drew  back  determinedly. 

"  No,  George,  the  trouble  isn't  so  easily  got  over 
as  all  that,"  she  said,  speaking  with  firmness. 
"What  I  said  this  evening  I  meant,"  she  turned 
pale.  "  George,  don't  you  think  I  have  not  realized 
all  it  means  —  all  maybe  that  it  is  going  to  mean  — 
this  bitter,  bitter  cup  put  to  our  lips.  Don't  think, 
George,  that  its  gall  tastes  less  bitter  to  me  than  to 
you  ....  No,  my  God !  No !  . .  .  " 

She  raised  her  eyes  searching  her  husband's  face. 
They  were  determined,  but  her  tone  grew  apologetic. 

"  George,  I  gave  in  to  my  father  and  mother,  and 


DIVIDED  69 

to  Jo  here  "  —  she  swung  her  arm  out  towards  her 
sister.  "  I  said,  when  they  kept  on  bothering  me : 
*  Very  well,  as  you  all  wish  it  I  shall  go  and  talk 
this  thing  over  with  my  husband;  maybe  he  will  see 
some  way  out '  —  But  I  knew  in  my  heart  there  was 
no  way  out  —  no  way  hut  the  one. 

"  My  husband,  you  have  known  me  all  my  life," 
she  had  fallen  to  pleading.  "  Was  there  ever  a  time 
when  a  du  Bruyn  woman  was  anything  less  than  an 
out-and-out  patriot,  glorying  in  onze  land?  —  when, 
next  to  her  father's  God,  she  loved  and  prized  any- 
thing or  anyone  more  than  her  father's  country,  her 
father's  nation  and  people  —  the  liberty  of  the  race 
from  which  she  had  sprung^ 

"  I  gloried  in  my  nation  —  the  great  Dutch  South 
Africa  built  up  in  the  Transvaal  by  our  undaunted 
fathers,  by  our  strong,  brave  mothers  —  the  bur- 
gesses of  our  Republic.  I  worshipped  our  freedom; 
our  position  as  a  people  of  a  free  Republic,  govern- 
ing ourselves;  answerable  to  no  outside  Power  for 
our  actions;  answerable  only  to  God. 

"  Oh,  George,  you  know,"  her  voice  grew  strained 
and  piteous  —  "  you  know,  you  always  have  known; 
this  thing  is  not  something  new  I  am  springing  on 
you.  How  often  have  you  not  laughed  at  me  — 
teased  me?     Isn't  it  so,  as  I  say?     Isn't  it?  " 

Her  eyes  questioned  as  fiercely  as  her  tones.  Her 
husband  felt  the  sincerity  of  her  words,  felt,  too, 
that  in  admitting  as  much  he  was  yielding  to  her  un- 
reasoning prejudice  in  the  matter  of  his  neutrality. 


70  DIVIDED 

Nevertheless  he  felt  himself  answering  as  one  com- 
pelled : 

"  It  is  true." 

She  pulled  back  a  chair  from  the  table  and  sank 
upon  it;  her  elbows  rested  upon  the  edge  of  the 
linoleum  cover,  her  hand  supported  her  hidden  face. 
George  moved  and  stood  behind  her,  resting  one 
hand  on  the  bowed  head. 

"  God  knows  what  you  say,  Aletta,  is  true  enough. 
Don't  think  I  am  reproaching  you  for  the  way  you 
look  at  this.  It  is  a  loyal  nature,  and  a  true  and 
noble  one  that  loves  its  nation  and  country  as  you 
do.  But,  dear,  there  is  another  side  in  this  question 
to  be  considered  —  my  nationality;  I  am  of  British 
descent,  of  English  blood." 

"  But  a  burgher,"  the  muffled  voice  was  obstinate. 
"  Had  you  been  born  and  bred  in  the  Colony  or 
Natal,  and  had  married  a  Dutchwoman,  there  would 
have  been  no  question  as  to  your  fighting  for  your 
King  and  country  —  British  both." 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  resolutely  facing  him. 

"  That  is  how  I  look  at  it,  George.  Talking  all 
night  and  for  ever  will  never  convince  me  that  a  man 
born  and  bred  in  the  Transvaal,  a  sworn  burgher  of 
the  Republic,  is  morally  in  the  right  to  remain  in 
hiding  or  to  run  away  instead  of  making  a  stand 
against  enemies  who  are  invading  the  country  — 
enemies  who  are  attacking  our  President  and  our 
freedom!  And,  George,  I  don't  believe  you  think 
it  right  either  I  " 


DIVIDED  71 

She  stood  challenging  the  man  whom  experience 
had  taught  her  would  disdain  to  lie  as  to  his  real 
convictions.     Her  husband  replied  shortly : 

"  I  should  not  be  right  in  fighting  the  English." 

"  That  is  evading  my  question  —  my  argument," 
she  cried  hotly.  "  I  ask  if  you  think  it  right  not  to 
fight  for  Kruger  against  his  enemies.  Would  you 
sit  still  if  the  Zulus  were  up  against  us?  " 

"  You  know  I  would  not.    What  is  the  use " 

"Or  the  Belgians?  or  the  Portuguese*?"  she  in- 
terrupted hastily. 

"  I  should  fight  any  invaders " 

"  —  but  England,"  again  she  cut  short  his  words. 
"  How  can  that  hold  water*?  It's  absurd  I  Believe 
me,  George,  you  are  being  blinded  to  your  duty  in 
this  thing  by  the  words  of  others.  Naturally,  your 
father  cannot  like  the  idea  of  your  taking  up  arms 
against  England  since  he  and  your  mother  were  born 
and  brought  up  under  the  British  flag.  But  ask 
yourself  honestly,  my  husband  —  is  it  right  for  you 
to  stand  aside  when  our  land  is  being  invaded  and 
attacked,  our  homes  endangered,  our  possessions  — 
our  very  lives  —  threatened?  Can  this  be  right? 
Tell  me  honestly  that  you  think  so.  No,  you  can- 
not —  you  cannot  I  " 

Her  voice  rose  triumphantly  as  she  concluded  the 
torrent  of  words  she  had  poured  forth,  unconsciously 
falling  into  the  taaU  which  as  a  rule  she  carefully 
refrained  from  using  in  her  own  home.  With  all 
her  fierce  patriotism,  Aletta,  like  the  majority  of  her 


72  DIVIDED 

sisters  who  had  done  the  same,  was  proud  of  the  fact 
that  she  had  married  an  Englishman. 

But  her  husband,  who  as  a  man  and  a  burgher  felt 
strongly  the  desire  to  assist  his  fellow-burghers  in 
the  task  of  resisting  the  invading  forces,  merely 
sighed  impatiently.     Then  he  said,  good-naturedly: 

*'  No  one  denies  that  it  is  the  duty  of  our  burghers 
to  fight  when  the  Transvaal  is  attacked;  but  Aletta, 
child,  you  won't  look  at  the  question  in  any  other 
light  but  just  that  one  incontestable  fact.  See  here, 
my  girl.  Think  for  a  moment  of  my  position  —  an 
Englishman  to  fight  England !  Such  a  man  is  called 
a  renegade,  a  traitor " 

Her  voice  fell  to  a  deep  note. 

"  Are  the  Dutch,  then,  who  in  the  Cape  and  Natal 
are  helping  Great  Britain  to  fight  the  Dutch  —  their 
countrymen  —  are  these  hundreds  of  Dutchmen 
renegades  and  traitors'? 

"Answer  me,  George,"  she  demanded,  as  he  re- 
mained mute,  silenced  by  this  fresh  problem  put  be- 
fore him. 

He  could  find  nothing  to  say.  The  whole 
wretched  business  of  the  war  —  in  reality  a  grim, 
international  conflict  devastating  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  great  sub-Continent  —  was  too  com- 
plicated for  George  Brandon,  or  for  any  English- 
Transvaaler  or  Dutch-Cape-Colonist,  satisfactorily 
to  comment  upon.  Each  man  among  those  placed 
as  he  found  himself  placed  must  decide  for  himself 
as  to  the  part  he  individually  ought  to  play  as  a  true 


DIVIDED  73 

patriot,  as  a  loyal  subject.  Worn  out  by  the  struggle 
of  a  divided  duty  which  had  for  so  long  occupied  his 
anxious  attention,  the  young  man  felt  unable  longer 
to  discuss  the  vexed  question;  he  longed  only  to  set 
it  aside  for  the  time  being. 

"  Let  it  drop  for  the  present,  Aletta.  The  ques- 
tion is  not  what  a  man  ought  to  do  in  such  a  case  — 
the  wisest  would  find  it  hard  to  say.  But  the  ques- 
tion just  now  is  that  I  am  dead  tired  and  want  to 
hear  no  more  of  it  to-night.  So  let  it  drop,  little 
woman." 

She  bent  towards  him,  her  eyes  flashing. 

"  I'll  let  it  drop  by  going  out  of  your  life,  George ! 
You  will  drive  me  from  you!  For  do  you  think 
me  a  spoonfed  babe  to  live  with  a  husband  who  is  not 
man  enough  to  fight  when  his  fellows  —  yes,  and 
women  too  —  are  being  shot  down  every  day?  — 
when  our  land  is  being  watered  night  and  day  with 
their  blood?  And  for  a  man  among  us  to  be  a-skulk- 
ing  and  hiding,  and  talking  cowardly-like  of  duty!  " 
she  raised  her  hand  expressively,  as  though  defend- 
ing herself  from  the  searching  glance  that  had  come 
into  the  deep  blue  eyes  facing  hers.  "  George,  I  am 
a  daughter  of  the  brave  voor-trekkers  —  of  those  men 
and  women  who  faced  hardships  and  dangers  and 
peril  and  death  in  their  desire  for  liberty^  in  their 
determination  to  build  up  the  Dutch  Republic  in 
South  Africa.  And  do  you  think  it  is  possible  for 
me  to  live  as  wife  to  one  who  shrinks  from  battle, 
and  the  sound  of  roers  and  the  smell  of  powder?  — 


74  DIVIDED 

to  bear  children  —  puny  sons  and  chicken-hearted 
daughters  —  to  a  man  who  sat  at  his  fireside  when 
his  country  called  for  him  in  her  hour  of  need"? 
Never !    Before  my  God !    Never !  never ! !  " 

"  Aletta  I  Aletta !  "  sobbed  Johanna,  "  don't  talk 
so  cruelly  —  so  wickedly.  Aren't  you  ashamed*? 
George  is  no  coward." 

"  Coward!  "  scoffed  a  harsh  voice  from  the  door- 
way.    "  By  Jove  I  but  you  women  are  rats.^^ 

Johanna  quickly  turned;  her  dark  eyes,  wet  with 
tears,  rested  on  Thane  Brandon's  angry  face  and 
threatening,  dark  brows.  He  tramped  into  the 
room. 

"  Look  here,  Aletta,  I've  been  listening  to  your 
heroics.  Haven't  you  talked  enough*?  Give  George 
a  rest;  he  looks  done  up,"  his  heavy  hand  fell  in 
brotherly  fashion  upon  George's  shoulder  as  he 
pressed  him  into  the  big  arm-chair.  "  Take  it  easy, 
old  man;  light  up;  we'll  have  a  pipe  together.  Never 
heed  the  missis.  Women  are  never  so  happy  as  when 
deafening  a  man  with  their  babble." 

But  Aletta  interposed  her  person  between  the 
brothers. 

"You've  been  listening,  have  you.  Thane?"  she 
said  hotly.  "  Then  hear  the  end  of  my  words.  As 
surely  as  George  does  not  go  with  the  other  Trans- 
vaal burghers  to  fight  for  our  country  and  for  our 
freedom,  so  surely  as  that  God  is  above  us,  as  that 
we  talk  together  here  in  the  home  to  which  I  came 
his  bride  and  in  which  I  have  dwelt  his  faithful  wife 


DIVIDED  75 

—  so  surely  will  I  never  more  be  wife  to  him,  nor 
longer  dwell  by  his  side !  There  I  you  can  take  it  or 
leave  it  as  you  please  —  the  two  of  you  —  for  I 
mean  it  .  .  .  but  whether  I  am  forced  to  carry  it  out 
is  for  my  husband  to  decide." 

With  this  parting  shot,  flung  at  poor  George,  she 
moved  into  the  bedroom  and  shut  the  door  upon  the 
three.  In  silence  they  heard  her  draw  the  bolt  on 
the  inside.  Thane's  face  darkened;  his  thick,  black 
eyebrows  drew  together  frowningly. 

"  I  think  I  must  be  getting  home,"  Johanna  said 
timidly,  during  a  pause  which  followed  upon  a  brief 
discussion  by  the  brothers  of  some  farm  business,  and 
the  matter  of  the  return  of  the  farm-servants. 
"  Mother  will  be  anxious,"  she  added,  rising. 

Thane,  who  had  stooped  to  light  a  fresh  pipe  by 
tossing  a  live  coal  into  the  carefully  scraped  bowl, 
volunteered  to  see  her  safely  on  the  way. 

"  But  won't  you  sleep  here"?  "  George  asked,  hos- 
pitably.   "  The  spare  room  is  all  ready." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"They  expect  me  back,"  she  explained,  lamely, 
and  despite  his  pre-occupation  her  brother-in-law 
noted  and  wondered  at  the  light  and  colour  that  en- 
hanced the  brilliance  of  her  dark  beauty.  Thane, 
however,  understood,  and  the  signs  were  by  no  means 
displeasing  to  him. 

"  For  God's  sake,  George,  come  down  right  prop- 
erly on  that  wife  of  yours,  if  you  want  any  peace  or 
comfort!     Don't  shilly-shally,  old  chap,  whatever 


76  DIVIDED 

you  do  I     A  man  must  be  master  in  his  own  home  or 
he  had  better  be  dead." 

He  gave  this  piece  of  brotherly  advice,  then,  with 
a  cheery  good-night,  followed  Johanna  from  the 
room. 


IX 


The  girl,  not  waiting  to  hear  Thane's  emphatic 
exhortation  as  to  the  proper  treatment  of  recalci- 
trant wives,  stepped  lightly  along  the  rough  track 
that  led  from  the  Top  Farm  by  way  of  the  stream  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill  to  the  home  of  her  parents.  But 
Thane,  with  his  long  strides  quickly  overtook  her. 
They  walked  in  silence  for  a  time.  The  young 
man's  mind  was  occupied  with  his  brother's  trouble 
rather  than  with  the  girl  by  his  side.  In  his  own 
impetuous,  overbearing  fashion  he  loved  her,  but  of 
her  love  for  him  he  was  abundantly  assured.  There- 
fore, the  fulfilment  of  their  affection  could  very  well 
wait. 

Johanna,  of  course,  felt  otherwise.  Aletta's  hard- 
ness, George's  dilemma,  were  already  pushed  far 
into  the  background  of  her  mind.  Her  blood  was 
on  fire  with  the  mingled  bliss,  apprehension  and  hot 
determination  that  possessed  her  at  the  bare  knowl- 
edge that  she  walked  on  a  solitary  path,  in  the  dim, 
rich  night  under  southern  skies,  alone  with  the  man 
for  the  expression  of  whose  love  she  was  ready  to  risk 
a  woman's  all.  That  she  would  possess  him  at  all 
costs,  that  by  giving  herself  to  him  she  would  bind 
him  to  herself  by  the  strongest  of  all  ties,  the  girl 


78  DIVIDED 

had  long  determined.  Deterred  hitherto  by  Mar- 
gery's watchfulness,  baulked  by  Aletta's  attitude, 
hindered  in  her  fixed  resolve  by  Thane's  sudden  and 
bitter  fury  against  all  of  her  nationality,  Johanna 
had  long  awaited  some  such  favourable  opportunity 
as  now  presented  itself.  But,  to  her  dismay,  she 
found  her  lover  moody  and  unresponsive,  his  whole 
being  centred  upon  his  brother's  difficulties. 

The  contrast  in  looks  which  marked  the  outward 
build  of  the  two  sisters  was  abundantly  emphasized 
in  their  characters  and  dispositions.  They  were  the 
daughters  of  two  conflicting  types  of  people.  Prod- 
ucts of  the  Dutchmen  who  for  fifty  years  defended 
themselves  against  Spain  at  the  height  of  her  power, 
they  were  as  well  of  the  ancestry  of  those  inflexible 
French  Huguenots-  who  gave  up  home,  fortune  and 
country  at  the  Revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes, 
who  voyaged  to  the  Cape,  and  who  for  generations 
lived  side  by  side  with  their  Dutch  neighbours  on  the 
shores  of  Table  Bay.  The  results  of  this  intermix- 
ture of  races  —  combined  with  seven  succeeding 
generations  spent  in  constant  warfare  against  savage 
surroundings,  bloodthirsty  barbarians,  and  ferocious 
wild  beasts  —  has  produced  one  of  the  most  rugged, 
virile  and  unconquerable  races  ever  seen  upon  earth, 
as  well  as  one  marked  by  the  most  emphatic  contrasts 
in  individual  types. 

Of  the  phlegmatic  temper  and  resolute  character 
of  the  Hollander,  Aletta  was  a  pure  Dutch  product; 
she  was  blond,  she  was  faithful,  she  was  obstinate 


DIVIDED  79 

—  unmoved  by  threat,  fanatical  where  her  religion 
bade  her  serve,  she  worshipped  the  freedom  of  her 
country.  She  was  a  determinist  of  the  true  Boer 
type.  Once  she  had  accepted  a  view  of  conduct  or 
principle,  she  adhered  to  it  with  inflexible  tenacity  of 
purpose.  Scripture  was,  of  course,  her  authority, 
and  none  but  a  godless  unbeliever  would  seek  to  inter- 
pret otherwise  its  expressed  commands.  George 
Brandon  she  had  known  all  her  life;  she  had  cared 
for  him  more  than  her  Dutch  lover  Bouwer,  when 
the  choice  of  a  husband  was  before  her.  But  she 
had  long  weighed  the  matter  in  her  cautious  mind  be- 
fore deciding  upon  marrying  the  man  of  British  an- 
cestry. Except  for  their  descent,  the  men  were  alike 
Transvaalers,  both  educated  by  the  same  worthy 
pedagogue  —  the  broken-down-gentleman  school- 
meester  —  speaking  both  the  taal  and  English  with 
equal  fluency  according  to  the  surroundings  of  the 
moment.  But,  George  Brandon  —  the  gracious, 
pleasant  young  Englishman  —  was  the  chosen,  and, 
once  his  wife,  Aletta  was  his  faithful  wedded  part- 
ner, devoted  body  and  soul  to  his  interests,  proud 
that  he  should  "  get  on  "  and  become  a  man  of  farms 
and  stock,  and  possessions  and  wealth.  Nothing  less 
than  deliberate  cowardice  or  disloyalty  —  as  she 
reckoned  it  —  to  the  flag  of  the  Republic,  on  his  part, 
could  have  created  the  present  serious  rupture  be- 
tween husband  and  wife.  But  a  lofty  contempt  of 
danger  where  the  freedom  of  her  people  was  con- 
cerned, an  intense  loyalty  to  her  country  was,  to  this 


8o  DIVIDED 

patriotic  Boer  woman,  the  very  breath  and  essence 
of  her  existence.  In  the  present  crisis  she  stood  firm 
as  a  rock  embedded  in  the  iron  mould  of  her  con- 
victions. George  should  fight  for  his  country,  if  he 
were  to  continue  to  mate  with  her  as  master,  hus- 
band and  lover. 

With  Johanna,  the  quick,  hot,  Gallic  blood  in  her 
veins  over-rode  at  this  crisis  in  her  life  all  national 
and  patriotic  considerations  that  would  otherwise 
have  weighed  with  her  as  imperatively  as  with  her 
sister.  Against  the  British  as  a  nation  warring 
against  her  own  people,  she  was  as  fiercely  embittered 
as  were  the  rest  of  her  countrywomen.  Love  of 
liberty  burned  as  hotly  within  her  impassioned  soul 
as  within  the  bosom  of  any  daughter  of  France  who, 
in  the  stormy  days  of  the  Revolution,  had  tramped 
towards  Versailles,  singing  the  Marseillaise  and 
shouting  for  the  downfall  of  tyrant  and  oppressor. 
But,  now,  an  individual  passion  had  dulled  that  fer- 
vour of  national  aspiration,  and  Johanna  had  grown 
to  look  upon  her  love  for  Thane  Brandon  as  a  part 
of  herself,  high  above  all  such  minor  considerations 
as  patriotism,  duty,  conduct,  or  conventions.  As  a 
flood,  impossible  of  resistance,  it  had  overtaken 
her  —  almost  unawares  —  and  she  had  suddenly 
found  herself  carried,  as  it  were,  off  her  feet.  For, 
unlike  Aletta  and  George,  she  and  Thane  had  never 
been  on  the  friendliest  of  terms.  As  a  child  he  had 
despised  little  girls;  as  a  boy,  was  notably  rude  and 
quarrelsome  when  in  their  company  and,  therefore, 


DIVIDED  8i 

had  been  greatly  disliked  by  the  impulsive  little 
Johanna.  As  a  youth,  he  was  inclined  to  snub  the 
du  Bruyn  girls  in  common  with  all  of  their  sex,  and 
thus  the  coolness  between  himself  and  the  younger 
sister  continued  until  within  the  last  two  years,  when 
the  rumour  of  war  brought  Johanna  —  a  tall,  well- 
grown,  handsome  young  woman  —  back  from  Pre- 
toria, where  she  had  been  gaining  a  "  finish  "  and 
"  polish "  among  friends  in  the  capital.  Then  it 
was  that  Thane,  noting  her  ripe  and  radiant  loveli- 
ness, grew  interested  and  less  bearish.  He  was, 
indeed,  still  disconcertingly  abrupt,  and  even  rude 
at  times;  but  she  had  quickly  fallen  beneath  the 
mastery  of  his  manhood.  He  was  essentially  a 
masterful  man ;  he  had,  in  spite  of  his  lack  of  gentle- 
ness, perhaps  even  because  of  it,  awakened  in  the 
heart  of  Johanna  a  fierce,  passionate  devotion;  a 
jealous,  exacting  love  that  threatened  tragedy  in 
some  form  or  other.  With  fire  such  as  this,  how- 
ever, he  was  not  altogether  disposed  to  refrain  from 
meddling. 

Along  the  rutty  track,  among  the  shadowed  dark- 
ness of  the  bush  that  sprang  in  patches  from  out 
the  hard  red  soil  between  the  stony  boulders  of  rock 
that  lay  to  either  side  of  the  clearing,  a  night  breeze 
wandered  fitfully.  The  pebbles  crunched  beneath 
the  weight  of  Thane's  heavy  tread.  As  they  apn 
proached  the  foot  of  the  hill  and  caught  the  mur- 
mur of  the  unresting  stream,  he  pulled  the  pipe 
from  between  his  lips  to  say :     "  Jo,  I  hope  to  God 


82  DIVIDED 

that  canting  sister  of  yours  does  not  mean  to  play 
the  damn  fool  with  George  I  "  then  replaced  it  with 
a  grip  on  the  stem  of  his  hard,  white  teeth  that  well- 
nigh  split  it  in  two. 

Johanna  felt  that  he  awaited  a  reply.  In  her 
own  mind  she  despaired  of  bringing  Aletta  to  reason. 
Aloud,  she  said:  "  Thane,  you  can't  love  me  when 
you  speak  so  horridly  of  Aletta." 

"  Can't  love  you  because  I  don't  kneel  down  and 
make  a  milksop  of  myself,"  he  sneered,  angrily. 
His  heart  full  of  fear  on  his  brother's  account,  he 
spoke  more  roughly  than  he  otherwise  would  have 
done.  With  the  quick  intuition  of  a  woman  in  love 
where  her  lover  is  concerned,  Johanna  understood 
and  forgave  his  brutal  tone. 

"  I  have  done  all  I  could  —  said  all  I  could  to 
influence  Aletta,  "  her  voice  was  subdued.  "  But 
for  me  she  would  not  now  be  with  George.  Yet 
you  blame  me " 

Touched  by  her  tone,  he  stretched  out  a  hand 
through  the  dimness  around  and  caught  her  arm 
with  a  rough,  comforting  grasp. 

"  Don't  get  waxy,  my  girl ;  all  this  confounded 
tangle  has  stirred  me  up  more  than  a  bit,  I  can  tell 
you.  Jo,  it's  as  plain  as  that  two-and-two-make- 
four  to  those  who  have  an  ounce  of  common-sense: 
English  fellows  like  George  and  myself  carCt  get  to 
shooting  Britishers.  That's  a  rank,  damn,  nonsen- 
sical way  of  talking;  ive  can't  do  it.  And  no  more 
can  we   go  out   shooting  at  our  old  chums   and 


DIVIDED  83 

comrades  —  your  father,  Bouwer,  and  the  rest  of  the 
boys  in  the  district.  See,  then,  there's  but  one  thing 
for  us  to  do  in  this  business  —  to  lie  low,  to  clear 
out  of  the  range  of  both  Boer  and  Briton.  *  This 
quest  is  not  for  me,'  as  Lancelot  of  the  Lake  has  it  — 
nor  for  George  either.  To  get  out  of  the  way  till 
the  trouble's  over,  that's  the  game  for  us  to  play  at. 
Isn't  it  so,  old  girl?" 

Her  heart  spoke  faintly  on  behalf  of  those 
countrymen  of  her  own  who,  in  the  Colony  and 
Natal,  had  gallantly  thrown  in  their  lot  with 
Britain.  Since  they,  as  loyal  subjects  of  the  Empire 
under  which  the  conditions  of  life  had  made  them 
subjects,  could  do  this  thing  why  should  it  prove  an 
impossibility  to  the  English  burghers  of  Oom  Paul? 
She  did  not  venture,  however,  to  put  the  thought  into 
words,  fearful  of  drawing  upon  herself  the  tempest 
of  fury  that  smouldered  in  the  young  man's  breast. 

"  Thane,  "  she  faltered,  "  you  ask  me  ...  a 
Dutch  woman?  " 

He  tossed  aside  her  arm  and  strode  ahead.  She 
quickened  her  steps  and  caught  his  hand  as  he 
planted  one  firm  step  on  the  wooden  bridge. 

"  I'm  going  home,  "  he  said,  curtly. 

"  No,  no  I "  she  pleaded,  breathing  quickly. 
"  Oh,  Thane,  you'll  never  leave  me  to  go  alone  along 
the  river  —  so  dark  as  it  is !  Come  just  as  far  as  the 
bend." 

She  had  drawn  him  back  from  the  bridge  as  she 
spoke  and  reluctantly,  as  it  seemed,  he  allowed  her 


84  DIVIDED 

to  retain  his  hand.  In  this  fashion  they  proceeded 
along  the  pathway  through  the  rushes  that  bordered 
the  banks  of  the  hurrying  stream. 

Just  where  the  big,  flat  boulder  rose  above  the 
water  they  stopped.  Far  ahead  of  them  from  the 
bend  in  the  hillside  twinkled  the  lights  in  the  home- 
stead of  du  Bruyn's  Rust,  while  directly  across  the 
stream  the  stronger  lights  shining  steadily  from  the 
back  premises  of  The  Outspan  beckoned  to  them. 

"  Thane !  don't  go !  not  just  yet  I  "  implored  the 
distracted  Johanna,  feeling  another  wrench  of  the 
hand  to  which  she  clung.  "  I'll  say  whatever  you 
like;  no  matter  what  you  think  or  do,  you  know  it 
makes  no  difference  to  me  —  to  my  love, "  she 
faltered. 

"  Love ! "  he  growled  in  disgusted  tones. 
"  There's  fighting,  not  love,  to  be  faced,  girl ! 
There's  treason  and  treachery,  and  bloodshed  and 
hell  before  us.  We're  going  into  it  sharp,  the  lot 
of  us  I  Love !  "  his  scorn  was  terrible.  "  Don't 
talk  of  love,  Jo,  till  this  confounded  war  is  over  and 
done  with. " 

"  And  you  or  George  shot  and  dead,  "  she  sobbed 
passionately.  "  Or  if  alive,  only  to  hate  me  and 
mine  because  of  the  hate  that  will  be  left  between 
your  people  and  mine.  No  Thane,  to-night  decides 
things  for  us  —  for  you  and  me  —  one  way  or  the 
other  "  —  her  voice  grew  hard  and  steady.  "  If 
you  want  me^  speak  as  a  man  speaks  to  the  woman 
he  wants  —  and  take  me,  once  and  for  all.  " 


DIVIDED  85 

Thane  drew  back;  her  hand  fell  from  his.  He 
looked  hard  into  her  face.  After  a  silence  that  to 
both  man  and  girl  appeared  endless,  he  said  hesita- 
tingly: 

*'  Jo  .  .  .  this  business  has  upset  you  .  .  .  you 
don't  know  what  you  are  saying." 

"Don't  I*?"  she  cried  defiantly,  and  lifted  her 
head,  letting  her  black  eyes  blaze  into  his.  "  Don't 
I?  Yes,  I  do  I  I  just  do!  Throw  me  aside  now, 
and  I  am  lost  to  you  forever." 

"  Don't  rant,  Jo,"  he  said  testily,  for  the  idea  of 
losing  her  altogether  rankled,  despite  his  determina- 
tion. "  I  love  you  as  a  man  loves  the  woman  he 
means  to  mate,  and  if  this  damned  war  hadn't 
thrown  a  bomb  between  us  and  between  our  people 
we  should  have  been  married  by  this  time.  But, 
my  girl,  we  can't  shut  our  eyes  to  the  fact  that  hell 
has  been  stirred  up  between  your  people  and  mine. 
How  is  that  devil  Aletta  going  to  act*?  She  can 
ruin  George  —  yes,  bring  ruin  and  misery  upon  him, 
and  misery  to  us ;  and  if  she  does  it,  so  help  me  God  I 
but  I'll  never  take  to  wife  one  of  her  race  and  breed  I 
I'll  swear  to  that!" 

Johanna  stood  as  though  turned  to  stone,  horrified 
by  his  words  and  tone.  But  in  another  moment  her 
courage  returned  to  her.  Nature  bade  her  be  bold, 
bade  her  forget  the  part  accorded  by  the  dictates  of 
centuries  of  civilization  and  convention  as  proper  to 
her  sex.  If  Thane  escaped  from  her  this  night  a 
free  man  she  had  no  bond  wherewith  in  the  future 
to  hold  him. 


86  DIVIDED 

But  would  he  play  his  part?  Nature  whispered 
to  her  of  the  old  enticement  —  the  bait  of  all  ages 
and  times  by  which  a  man  is  ever  snared. 

"  Where  would  you  and  George  go  into  hiding*?  " 
she  asked  sympathetically,  pressing  to  his  side. 
"  I'll  do  my  best  with  Aletta,  dear." 

Her  eyes  shone  like  dark,  slumbrous  pools  from 
out  the  whiteness  of  her  face.  What  man,  looking 
into  them,  could  remain  unmoved  by  the  sense  of 
their  loveliness?  Not  the  quick-tempered  young 
giant  who,  having  looked,  felt  the  vehement  leap  of 
his  own  fiery  pulses. 

"Jo,  I  can  trust  you,  I  know  .  .  .  but  better 
for  you  to  know  nothing  of  our  plans  .  .  .  Aletta 
would  worm  them  out  of  you." 

"Thane  —  when  a  Dutch  girl  loves  —  all  the 
rest  of  the  world  is  as  nothing  then." 

"  I'll  whisper  it  in  your  ear,  sweetheart,  before  we 
slip  away  . .  .if  only  George  will  corned 

"  He  must,  he  must !  "  Her  heart  beat  with 
violent  relief  at  the  possibility  of  victory. 
"  Promise  me  "  —  she  clung  to  him,  her  white  face 
close  to  his,  her  dark,  slumbrous  eyes  holding  his 
gaze  —  "  promise  me  you  won't  go  without  telling 
me  .  .  .  Thane !  Thane !  " 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  —  reluctantly  at  first, 
then  with  sudden  passion.  She  trembled  and 
cowered  beneath  the  rough  grasp  that  placed  her 
upon  his  broad  breast,  beneath  the  scorching  kisses 
he  pressed  upon  her  burning,  tear-stained  face,  upon 


DIVIDED  87 

her  eyes  and  hair.  But  they  awoke  within  her  a 
greater  recklessness,  a  more  vehement  disregard  as 
to  usage  and  custom.  Indifferent  to  all  else,  she  lay 
passive  within  his  arms. 

"  It's  hard  to  give  you  up,"  Thane  breathed, 
with  low  intensity.  "  Don't  tempt  me  over-much, 
Jo  .  .  .  the  blood  in  my  veins  runs  hot  and  swift 
...  I  might  love  and  then  murder  you  I  " 

She  laughed,  a  low  ripple  of  content. 

"  Come,  girl  .  .  .  aren't  you  afraid  of  a  brute  of 
an  Englishman? "  he  mocked.  Then  his  tone 
changed:  "  Come,  love;  see  here,  sweetheart,  let  us 
rest  a  bit  .  .  .  here,  on  this  patch  of  moss  and  dried 
grass  under  the  old  mimosa  .  .  .  it'll  make  a  cosy 
nest." 

*'  How  plainly  we  can  hear  the  water  gurgling 
and  lapping  over  the  stones,  "  sighed  Johanna  in 
low,  faint  tones  of  happiness,  surrendering  herself 
with  shy  womanliness  —  now  that  victory  was  hers 
—  to  his  renewed  embrace. 

From  out  of  the  darkness  of  the  nest  under  the 
branching  mimosa,  heavy  with  the  scent  of  its  golden 
balls,  Thane's  voice  rang  hollow : 

"  —  and  falling  into  the  bottomless  pool  where 
George  sank  the  day  he  fought  Singula  for  me." 

"  And  we  can  still  see  the  light  from  your  home," 
breathed  the  girl,  holding  back  with  an  effort  the 
overmastering  flood  of  passion  that  had  taken 
forcible  possession  of  her  and  threatened  danger  to 
the  success  of  her  venture.    "  See  —  there." 


88  DIVIDED 

It  was  an  unlucky  allusion. 

"  Margery^'  Thane  groaned,  "  waiting  up  for  me, 
to  hear  news  of  George,"  and  he  hated  himself  for 
holding  Aletta's  sister  in  his  arms. 

His  bitter,  implacable  anger  would  not  let  him 
hold  her;  yet  with  all  the  fierceness  of  his  manhood 
he  resented  the  temper  which  constrained  him  to 
leave  her. 

"  See,  there  is  a  light  moving  about  outside  your 
place,"  he  said  huskily,  and  the  change  in  his  voice 
instantly  alarmed  Johanna.  "  Your  father  looking 
out  for  you,  I  expect  —  better  get  on,  little  woman; 
eh?" 

With  what  right  word  might  she  still  hold  him? 
With  what  wrong  word  might  she  not  drive  him 
from  her?  Terrified,  despairing,  determined,  she 
said  quickly: 

"  He'll  only  be  going  to  the  stables  to  give  the 
horses  a  last  feed."  Her  arms  crept  closer  around 
the  strong,  bare  throat  and  neck  escaping  her  grasp. 
"  Oh,"  she  stammered  incoherently,  "  never  mind 
that  .  .  .  what  does  it  matter?  ...  I  mean  —  so 
long  as  we  have  one  another  ..."  Then,  as  he 
felt  the  tears  on  her  cheeks  maddening  him  as  he 
hardened  his  heart  against  her  final  appeal,,  she 
whispered  sobbingly :  "  Sorrow  is  coming  .  .  . 
and  parting  .  .  .  and  misery  .  .  .  hut  we  are 
together  now  ..." 

Through  the  darkness  she  sensed  the  awful  empti- 
ness around. 


When  Thane  Bradon,  some  few  minutes  later, 
entered  the  house,  he  found  Margery  awaiting  his 
news. 

She  was  sitting  before  the  ashes  of  an  expiring 
fire,  a  basket  of  stockings  on  the  table  drawn  up  to 
the  hearth,  a  partly-damed,  hand-knitted  sock  held 
over  her  left  hand  for  more  searching  inspection  as 
to  its  wholeness. 

The  low-ceiled,  oblong  apartment  in  which  she  sat 
—  the  same  in  which  Woodward  had  taken  his  re- 
past —  overlooked  the  garden  and  river,  and  from  its 
windows  were  obtainable  a  wide  view  of  the  moun- 
tain-side, with  the  Top  Farm  homestead  nestling  on 
the  half-way  plateau  and  the  lofty  peak  of  World's 
View  towering  overhead. 

Through  the  windows  on  this  particular  evening 
a  clear  ray  of  light  had  penetrated  right  away  to  the 
cosy  nest  under  the  old  mimosa  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  stream.  Had  Margery  with  intent  raised  the 
blinds  —  her  brother  questioned  suspiciously. 

Her  face  paled  as  in  a  few  strong  words  he  told 
the  tale  of  Aletta's  uncompromising  attitude. 

"  Surely  she  can't  expect  George  to  fight  against 
the  English*?"  she  asked,  impatiently. 

89 


90  DIVIDED 

"But  that's  just  what  she  does  expect  —  and 
demand,  too,  in  the  voice  of  a  tiger-cat,"  Thane 
growled  angrily,  helping  himself  more  liberally  than 
was  his  wont  from  the  brandy  decanter  on  the  side- 
board. "  Expect  reason  from  a  bally  billy-goat 
rather  than  from  her.  There's  but  one  thing  for 
George  and  me,"  he  added  emphatically,  "  and  that 
is  to  be  out  of  the  way  when  the  call  comes." 

"  There's  Wyman's,"  breathed  Margery. 

"  You've  hit  it  first  shot,"  her  brother  replied; 
"  the  very  spot  I've  selected.  There's  only  the  old 
man  left  since  the  rest  trekked  to  Pretoria,  and  he's 
bent  double  with  the  rheumatism.  The  Boers  won't 
come  messing  round  there." 

"And  those  caves  just  behind  the  farmhouse," 
Margery  suggested;  "you  and  George  could  live 
there  for  weeks  and  no  one  the  wiser." 

Thane  nodded. 

"  We  must  start  to-morrow  carting  provisions 
over  on  the  quiet.  If  only  George  will  see  it  as  we 
do,"  he  concluded  irritably. 

"  George  must,"  his  sister  said  with  conviction  in 
her  tones  to  hide  the  sinking  at  her  heart. 

"  Mum's  the  word,  Margery."  Thane  rose  from 
his  seat  on  the  edge  of  the  table  as  he  spoke.  "  Don't 
let  the  kid  guess." 

"  Babs  is  safe;  but.  Thane,  listen;  don't  breathe  a 
word  to  Jo." 

Her  brother's  colour  rose. 

"  Of  course  not  —  let  a  Boer  into  the  secret  and 
what  chance  would  there  be  of  hiding  from  'em?  " 


DIVIDED  91 

"  But,  Thane  .  .  .  you  are  so  indiscreet  ...  I 
am  often  worried  over  it  ...  it  frightens  me  .  .  . 
that  girl  is  simply  off  her  head  about  you,  and  yet 
you  encourage  her  in  her  folly;  you  do,  you  know 
you  do." 

"  Don't  you  worry;  I'll  never  make  a  fool  of 
myself  over  any  girl  "  —  conscious  pride  was  in  his 
tone.  "  And  don't  talk  to  me  of  Boer  women,  I'm 
about  fed  up  with  one  of  'em  to-night  —  all  this 
trouble  and  bother  come  to  poor  old  George  —  damn 
the  lot  of  'em  I  " 

He  strode  across  the  room,  yawning. 

"  Heigho  I  I'm  dead  beat ;  I  must  get  some  sleep." 
He  turned  at  the  door.  "  I  say,  where  has  the  old 
man  put  the  Australian  chap^  " 

"  Next  door  to  you;  don't  disturb  him  if  you  can 
help;  he  went  to  bed  just  after  his  supper." 

Thane  stood  apparently  considering. 

"  Old  Jonas  carried  some  supper  to  his  room," 
Margery  continued,  packing  together  the  socks  and 
pressing  them  into  the  basket.  "  He  sent  in  word 
that  he  was  tired,  and  would  we  excuse  his  remain- 
ing in  his  room." 

"  Then  you  haven't  seen  him  since  he  was  brought 
back?  "  her  brother  inquired  carelessly. 

Margery  said:  "No;  no  one  but  Jonas  has  seen 
him  since  father  showed  him  where  he  was  to  doss 
down." 

"  Poor  chap !  It  was  rough  luck  being  nabbed  by 
that  schelm  of  a  Bouwer  —  an  Australian,  too." 

"He's  not,"  Margery  contradicted  calmly;  "he 


92  DIVIDED 

told  father  he  was  born  and  brought  up  in  Eng- 
land .  .  .  only  went  out  sheep-farming  to  Australia 
three  years  ago." 

"  Oh,'*  said  Thane  sleepily,  and  then  turned  once 
more  to  leave  the  room. 

"Thane,"  said  his  sister  seriously,  and  at  that 
warning  note  in  her  voice  he  again  swung  round 
impatiently.  "  Thane,  you'll  bring  ruin  on  George 
and  yourself  if  you  don't  shake  off  Johanna.  She'll 
turn  one  of  these  days,  out  of  revenge,  upon  you 
both." 

"  What  can  she  do?  "  he  questioned  evasively. 

"  What  can^t  she  do*?  You  had  better  ask  your- 
self that,"  his  sister  returned,  severely. 

Thane  was  understood  to  damn  the  women  as  he 
retreated  from  the  room  and  went  off  to  bed. 

Margery  raked  out  the  ashes,  extinguished  the 
lamp  and  felt  her  way  into  the  passage.  Bolting  the 
door  at  the  end,  through  which  her  brother  had  just 
passed  and  which  opened  out  on  to  the  front  of  the 
house,  she  returned  to  where  an  inner  door  led  from 
the  narrow  hall  into  her  own  bedroom.  Softly  clos- 
ing the  door  behind  her,  she  glanced  towards  the  bed 
in  the  corner  upon  which  the  moon,  through  the  un- 
shuttered window  opposite,  threw  its  light.  Babs 
lay  sleeping,  curled  among  the  pillows.  Margery 
passed  on  and  stood  at  the  window.  From  this  posi- 
tion she  could  directly  overlook  the  row  of  outhouses 
to  right  and  left  of  the  main  building;  she  could 
single  out  Thane's  bedroom,  opening,  as  did  all  the 
rooms,  into  the  front  yard;  could  see  the  closed  doon 


DIVIDED  93 

of  the  adjoining  apartment  —  number  six  —  the 
room  given  over  to  the  use  of  the  stranger  who  that 
day  had  been  introduced  into  her  life. 

"  I  rather  liked  his  manner,"  she  reflected.  "  But 
why  was  I  so  short  with  the  poor  fellow*?  "  she  asked 
herself,  and  thought  she  might  have  been  a  trifle 
more  sympathetic.  He  had  come  off  a  long,  lonely, 
dangerous  ride.  An  equally  perilous  journey  lay  be- 
fore him.  "  And  I  said  nothing  kind  or  encourag- 
ing," she  thought.  Then  recollected  her  weariness 
and  the  terrible  pots  and  pans.  "  No  wonder  I  for- 
got; I  was  dead  beat,  as  Thane  would  say;  I'll  do  the 
polite  to-morrow  —  if  I  get  time." 

She  pushed  open  the  casement  window,  leaned  out 
and  drew  together  the  wooden  shutters.  Rover,  the 
big  black  retriever,  looked  up  into  her  face  inquir- 
ingly from  where  he  lay  thumping  his  tail,  as  she 
bent  over  the  sill  with  a  low  "  Good  old  boy."  Then 
she  drew  herself  back  into  the  darkened  room,  and 
throwing  off  her  clothes  sat  on  the  side  of  the  bed 
thinking  of  George  and  his  terrible  position. 

"  Of  course  it  would  not  be  terrible  at  all  if  only 
he  were  not  so  conscientious  —  if  only  he  were 
adaptable^  like  others  —  bringing  his  conscience  into 
easy  conformity  with  the  dictates  of  policy."  .  .  . 
But  George  had  never  been  one  of  those  happy-go- 
lucky  individuals,  and  amidst  all  her  anxiety  and 
apprehension  on  his  account  his  sister  felt  she  would 
not  have  had  him  otherwise. 

She  had  slept  uneasily,  her  hand  in  the  child*s, 


94  DIVIDED 

when  she  woke  with  a  start  of  fear.  Rover  was 
growling  disapprovingly,  and  through  the  chinks  of 
the  shutters  was  borne  to  her  listening  ears  an  indis- 
tinct, murmuring  sound.  Raising  herself  quickly, 
she  groped  her  way  to  the  window  and  pushed  back 
the  shutters.  At  intervals  the  sound  was  repeated. 
Barefooted,  a  shawl  over  her  nightdress,  she  clam- 
bered over  the  low,  broad  sill  and  stood  in  the  yard. 
Rover  ran  up  and  nestled  against  her  fawningly. 
She  laid  a  restraining  hand  on  his  head.  Some  enemy 
it  might  be,  inimical  to  the  welfare  of  her  brothers, 
lurking  in  the  darkness.  She  would  best  whoever 
sought  to  do  them  harm. 

She  crept  to  Thane's  door,  intending  to  warn  him. 
But  with  her  hand  on  the  knob  she  paused.  She 
grew  astonished  —  enraged.  Her  brows  contracted 
menacingly  above  her  white  face  and  set  lips.  An 
enemy  indeed,  yet  not  of  the  kind  she  had  feared. 
The  sound  had  resolved  itself  into  a  low  cry  repeated 
at  intervals :  "  ^hane  .  .  .  ^hane  .  .  ,  unlatch 
your  shutters  ...  J  must  speak  to  you.  ..." 

So  that  was  it.  Jo  —  the  little  fiend  —  in  the 
garden ! 

The  single  window  of  each  little  room  in  the  row 
opened  on  to  the  garden.  The  voice  came  from  the 
garden,  from  someone  in  the  garden  who  had  stolen 
up  the  pathway  from  the  river.  Clearly  it  was  a 
woman's  voice  repeating  that  urgent  petition.  Mar- 
gerj'  sickened  and  grew  faint.     Into  what  terrible 


DIVIDED  95 

straits  might  Thane's  wicked  indiscretion  not  land 
the  lot  of  them^ 

She  heard  her  brother  moving  at  last  .  .  .  the 
bed  creaked  .  .  .  then  his  voice  came  thickly: 
"Who  the  devil  is  it?"  .  .  .  Then  a  whisper  and 
a  fierce  retort :  "  Are  you  mad?  "...  then  a  louder 
explanation  from  the  garden: 

"  I've  come  to  warn  you  .  .  .  Bouwer  is  round  at 
home  plotting  to  get  George  .  .  .  Do  you  want  to 
save  him?  —  *  No,'  do  you  say?  Oh,  I  thought  it 
wouldn't  be  '  No '  with  you  if  George  were  in  it 
.  .  .  then  open  .  .  .  quick  I  " 

Margery  waited  for  no  more.  To  reach  the  gar- 
den the  very  speediest  route  was  by  way  of  a  bed- 
room, using  the  window  as  an  exit.  Forgetful,  in 
her  excitement,  of  the  fact  that  to  Captain  Philip 
Woodward  had  been  allotted  the  room  adjoining 
Thane's,  she  incontinently  bolted  into  number  six, 
and  made  for  the  back  window.  Aroused  by  the 
noise  of  the  door  flung  violently  open,  the  captain  sat 
up  in  bed,  wondering  if  he  had  come  across  one  of 
those  Transvaal  earthquakes  of  which  report  had 
made  mention.  He  gazed  with  sleepy  surprise  at  the 
figure  of  a  flying  witch  —  as  it  appeared  to  him  — 
her  whiteness  cloaked  by  a  dark  shawl,  who  flitted 
the  length  of  the  room  and  disappeared  as  by  magic 
through  a  blank  wall  into  the  night.  Then,  as  he 
heard  the  noise  of  shutters  banged  loudly  together, 
he  fell  back  on  his  pillow,  and  piecing  the  evidence 
bit  by  bit  arrived  at  the  bare  outstanding  fact  of  the 
unwonted  intrusion  upon  his  privacy. 


96  DIVIDED 

"  Most  remarkable  lot  I've  ever  been  landed 
among,"  he  soliloquized;  and  in  order  to  be  prepared 
for  any  fresh  developments  that  might  arise  he 
deemed  it  prudent  to  leave  his  bed  and  get  into  his 
khaki,  which  he  did  p;rumblingly. 

From  the  garden  came  mufiled  voices  —  a  sound 
of  sharp  remonstrance,  reproaches,  sobs  —  then  a 
man's  deep  bass. 

Margery,  meanwhile,  had  fallen  lion-like  upon  the 
miserable  Johanna.  A  second  time  had  her  plans 
been  frustrated  and  the  Boer  girl  stood  inwardly 
raging.  Yet  she  held  to  her  purpose  and  lied  master- 
fully. 

"  I  come  —  all  this  way  in  the  cold  and  dark  — 
just  to  save  your  brothers;  and  you  —  you  —  my 
friend  —  you  who  have  known  me  all  my  life  — 
you  accuse  me  of  such  scandalous  conduct ! "  she 
cried,  assuming  an  air  of  great  indignation. 

But  the  English  girl  knew  her  Dutch  sister.  She 
dragged  the  unlucky  Jo  down  the  garden,  half-way 
to  the  bridge  before  she  stopped. 

"  Jo,  listen !  "  she  shook  her  arm,  "  listen !  "  she 
commanded  imperatively.  "  It's  not  whether  we're 
friends  or  care  for  each  other,  or  anything  so  small  as 
that.  It's  life  and  death,  Jo !  You  let  Tiianc  alone ! 
He  can't  fool  about  love-making  now !  War's  here, 
Jo!  —  bitter  war  between  your  people  and  mine! 
War^  Jo  —  not  love  and  softness  and  kisses  and  hap- 
piness, but  terrible  misery,  lifelong  sorrow  for  us  — 
for  your  home  or  for  mine,  God  knows!  Jo,  dear,  go 


DIVIDED  97 

home  .  .  .  forget  him  ...  let  him  have  a  chance 
—  let  my  brothers  have  a  chance  to  get  through  this 
business  without  any  more  complications.  Isn't 
Aletta  bad  enough  —  the  way  she  has  been  treating 
George"?  Yes,  I  know  you  can't  help  what  she  does; 
but,  Jo,  don't  you  come  making  matters  worse;  you 
leave  Thane  alone  and  I  promise  you  —  I  swear  to 
you  —  that  when  peace  comes  —  if  George  and  he 
are  unharmed  —  I'll  help  you  to  him.  .  .  .  Yes,  Jo 
...  go  away,  now  .  .  .  and  I  will." 

"  You  can't,"  Johanna  said  stubbornly.  "  Thane 
will  never  marry  me  then;  the  bitterness  will  be  too 
great  then.  Yes,  it  will,  for  years  and  years  between 
your  people  and  mine.  ...  If  Thane  turns  from 
me  this  night  he  is  lost  to  me  for  ever." 

"  For  shame,  Jo  I  You  —  a  proud  du  Bruyn  —  to 
stoop  so  low  to  win  a  man !  " 

t  "We  can't  stoop  lower  than  Nature,  Margery; 
and  it  is  only  when  we  stoop  to  her  level  that  she  can 
lift  us  as  high  as  heaven." 

"  There's  only  trouble  can  come  of  this  heaven  of 
yours,  Jo  —  bitter  trouble  to  all  of  us.  Don't  be 
selfish  .  .  .  come,  now,  I'll  take  you  home." 

"  It's  no  time  for  you  to  be  wandering  about,  Mar- 
gery," Thane's  voice  came  gruffly  out  of  the  dimness. 
He  had  dressed  himself,  had  stepped  through  the 
window,  followed  the  girls  and  had  heard  Joharma's 
bitter  confession.  There  was  no  littleness  in  his 
nature.  He  would  have  scorned  to  dishonour  the 
daughter  of  the  race  against  whom  he  was  now  at 


98  DIVIDED 

enmity.  He  would  have  disdained  to  have  revenged 
Aletta's  treatment  of  George  by  the  humiliation  of 
her  sister.  Stormy  and  passionate  as  was  his  nature, 
there  was  in  it  the  bigness  of  these  vast,  elemental 
forces.  But  he  was  human  and  his  pulses  bounded 
hotly  on  hearing  Johanna's  cry  for  himself,  partly 
as  it  affected  his  own  passion  for  her,  but  chiefly  be- 
cause of  his  brother's  safety.  Johanna  in  possession 
of  any  plot  against  George's  peace  of  mind  was  a 
valuable  ally.  In  this  capacity  he  resolved  to  employ 
her.  He  swore  to  drag  the  truth  from  her.  If  she 
insisted  upon  her  own  terms  as  the  price  he  must  pay, 
so  much  the  worse  for  her.  "  I'll  take  Jo  home,"  he 
added  shortly. 

"  No,  Thane,  you  will  not,"  Margery  protested 
with  quick  vehemence;  but  he  drew  her  to  one  side, 
pulling  her  clinging  arms  from  their  grasp  of  Jo- 
hanna's slim  waist. 

"  Go  in,  Margery;  my  word,  you've  nothing  on !  " 
lowering  his  tone  he  added  impatiently  into  her  ear : 
"  I  must  find  out  what  that  infernal  Bouwer  is  hatch- 
ing against  George  and  me." 

"Jo  will  tell  me,"  Margery  cried  imploringly; 
"  yes,  Jo,  you  will." 

"  Indeed,  I'll  not  —  I  don't  trust  your  promises 
—  liars  that  you  English  are ! "  Johanna  retorted 
stormily;  "  I'll  tell  no  one  but  Thane  —  and  I'll  not 
tell  him  while  you  stand  by.  .  .  .  No,  indeed;  I 
won't  be  befooled  by  the  lot  of  you  —  traitors,  one 


DIVIDED  99 

and  all,"  saying  which  she  disappeared  down  the 
pathway. 

They  listened  to  the  padding  ootsteps  crossing 
the  log-bridge.  Then  Thane  started  and  moved  to 
follow. 

"  Thane,  you  must  not  .  .  .  the  danger  .  .  . 
don't  you  see  it?  " 

But  he  shook  off  her  grasp  so  roughly  in  his  absorp- 
tion of  purpose  that  Margery  reeled  and  staggered 
with  some  force  against  the  rough  bark  of  the  tall  eu- 
calyptus beneath  which  they  had  been  standing. 
She  fell  to  the  ground  with  bruised  forehead  and  a 
cut  hand.  With  an  angry  word  she  picked  herself 
up,  but  Thane  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 


XI 


She  leaned  for  several  moments  against  the  broad 
trunk  that  had  dealt  her  so  unfriendly  a  blow  — 
hurt  physically  and  mentally,  conscious  only  of  in- 
tense misery. 

Dizzy  and  chilled  to  the  bone,  she  groped  her  way 
back  to  the  open  window  and,  climbing  through  the 
aperture  into  Thane's  bedroom,  regained  the  front 
yard.  Breathless,  with  still  an  occasional  heavy 
gasp,  she  sank  upon  a  bench  that  stood  fixed  against 
the  outbuildings,  bending  forward  in  a  crouching  po- 
sition and  putting  her  cut  hand  to  her  bruised  fore- 
head, the  result  being  a  ghastly  patch  on  the  white 
face. 

Captain  Woodward,  who,  in  his  dilemma,  had 
been  strolling  around  the  front  premises  escorted  by 
the  watchful  Rover,  now  deemed  the  time  for  ex- 
planations had  arrived.  In  stockinged  feet  he  ap- 
proached the  unconscious  Margery. 

"  Can  I  be  of  any  assistance*?  " 

The  sound  of  a  human  voice  startled  her  and  she 
sprang  to  her  feet  in  a  thrill  of  terror.  He  noticed 
they  were  bare  and  shapely,  and  gleamed  like  pol- 
ished ivory  beneath  the  dangling  ends  of  the  woollen 
shawl. 

100 


DIVIDED  loi 

"  Who  are  you?  "  she  demanded  sharply,  her  face 
lifted  to  his  as  she  studied  it  searchingly  through  the 
faint  grey  light  that  heralded  the  approach  of  the 
dawn. 

"  You  forget,"  he  said  quietly,  noting  the  ugly 
bruise  and  the  smear  of  crimson  on  the  white  face. 
*'  I  am  your  father's  guest  —  the  Boer  prisoner. 
But " 

"  Oh,  I  remember "  she  sank  back  on  the 

bench.  "  How  idiotic  of  me  I  "  she  muttered.  "  We 
must  have  disturbed  you,"  she  faltered.  Her  face 
suddenly  grew  crimson.  "  Oh  —  surely  —  I  must 
have  rushed  through  your  room  I  I  quite  forgot  any- 
one had  been  put  in  there  I  Why  didn't  you  bolt 
the  door  on  the  inside*?  Oh,  I  am  sorry!  What 
must  you  have  thought  of  me*?  " 

"  It  matters  nothing  —  not  in  the  very  least," 
Woodward  hastened  to  assure  her.  "  You  were  in 
haste  —  in  trouble.  Believe  me,  Miss  Brandon,  I 
am  only  concerned  to  see  that  you  are  hurt  —  and 
cold,  too."  He  caught  her  shiver  and  low,  bitter 
sigh.    "  Come,  let  me  help  you  back  to  the  house." 

Recollecting  she  must  needs  use  her  bedroom  win- 
dow to  effect  an  entrance  to  the  house,  Margery 
shook  her  head  as  she  rose  wearily  to  her  feet. 

"No,  thanks;  but  there's  really  no  need;  I  can 
manage."  With  what  dignity  she  could  muster  she 
drew  her  drapery  round  her  tall  figure.  "  I  beg  of 
you  to  forget  all  you  may  have  heard,"  she  said  in 
the  low  musical  tones  that  had  so  strongly  haunted 
his  imagination. 


102  DIVIDED 

"  I  have  heard  nothing,"  Woodward  replied  sim- 
ply, but  the  plain  words  and  quiet  tone  reassured 
her. 

"  Thank  you  —  I  am  so  sorry  you  were  disturbed. 
Go  in,  now,  and  try  to  get  some  sleep  before  morn- 
ing," she  called  back  over  her  shoulder  as  she  moved 
slowly  across  the  yard.  Some  instinct  told  him  she 
wished  to  regain  the  house  in  a  manner  peculiar  to 
herself,  and  he  turned  and  re-entered  his  bedroom 
against  the  impulse  that  bade  him  watch  her  cham- 
ber through  the  open  window  that  faced  them.  In- 
stead, he  resolutely  stretched  himself  out  upon  his 
neglected  couch  obedient  to  her  slightly-expressed 
wish. 

"And  yesterday  morning  I  had  never  seen  her! 
.  .  .  but  life  is  queer  ..."  he  soliloquized. 
"  Queer  doings  here,  too,  it  seems,"  he  reflected,  fall- 
ing into  a  dreamy  train  of  thought.  "  Primitive 
folk  .  .  .  prefer  windows  apparently  to  doors  as  nat- 
ural exits  .  .  .  but  they  are  the  true  Colonial  breed 
—  grit  all  through  —  she's  a  fine,  brave  girl  be  she 
never  such  a  drudge  .  .  .  stood  to  save  that  devil- 
may-care  fellow  from  some  scrape  or  other,  I'll  bet 
a  bob  .  .  .  she's  worth  a  round  dozen  of  such  as  he 

The  reflection  that  he  would  see  her  on  the  mor- 
row followed  him  into  dreamland,  stealing  across  his 
senses  like  the  shadowy  presence  of  some  indefinable 
good. 


BOOK  TWO 


The  Boer  predikant,  clad  in  rusty  black  —  a  knap- 
sack over  his  shoulder,  his  roer  in  his  hand,  a  well- 
stocked  cartridge-belt  clasping  his  portly  middle — 
rode  up  to  the  door  of  the  Top  Farm. 

Aletta  sat  on  the  stoep  slicmg  pumpkin  for  the 
midday  meal.  The  creepers,  overhanging  the  trellis- 
work  of  the  verandah,  and  climbing  in  a  thick  net- 
work of  tangled  growth  to  the  eaves  of  the  corru- 
gated iron  roof,  hid  her  at  first  from  sight  of  the 
reverend  gentleman. 

Nevertheless,  he  threw  his  bridle-reins  over  the 
head  of  his  rough-coated,  stoutly-built  pony,  and  dis- 
mounting, grunted  with  evident  understanding  to 
the  stunted,  pot-bellied  young  native  who  appeared 
suddenly  at  his  heels,  for  that  youth  with  a  ferocious 
grin,  meant  doubtless  as  a  pleasantry,  immediately 
seized  upon  the  animal  and  without  further  parley 
led  it  to  the  stables. 

Pastor  van  der  Merwe  conversed  on  general  topics 
during  the  first  half-hour  of  the  visit.  Over  his  cof- 
fee and  rusks  he  discussed  the  promising  spring  rains, 
so  welcome  to  the  farmers,  and  incidentally  praised 
Aletta's  light  biscuits,  which  praise  she  received  with 

105 


io6  DIVIDED 

the  expressionless  countenance  demanded  by  the  eti- 
quette of  her  people. 

But  the  coffee-drinking  over  and  the  pipe  set  go- 
ing, his  demeanour  changed  to  solemnity  as  he  in- 
quired in  a  serious  voice : 

"  How  is  it  with  your  husband,  daughter?  My 
visit  is  a  business  affair.  Alas!  in  these  evil  times 
onze  kerk  must  needs  join  hands  with  onze  land.  I 
am  going  from  farmhouse  to  farmhouse  among  my 
people,  spurring  on  our  men  to  their  duty  of  keeping 
off  the  godless  hosts  of  the  enemy  from  sweeping 
across  the  Northern  Transvaal,  bringing  pillage  and 
fire  and  death  upon  our  homes,  our  wives  and  our 
little  ones.  I  am  encouraging  our  women  to  be  in  no 
way  behind-hand  in  urging  upon  every  man  and  boy 
among  us  who  can  handle  a  rifle  to  fall  in  with  our 
commando,  and  help  drive  back  the  Irregulars  to  the 
boats  from  which  they  were  landed  to  do  their  devil's 
work  on  this  unhappy  land." 

"You  are  right,  Mynheer,"  Aletta  said  with  en- 
thusiasm. "  Indeed,  it  is  as  you  say."  She  had 
heard  of  the  visitation  round  the  district  of  the  ener- 
getic van  der  Merwe  and  was  prepared  to  welcome 
his  assistance  in  the  task  of  persuading  George  to  his 
duty  of  joining  the  burgher  forces.  "  The  men  left 
about  here  are  sluggish  —  very  sluggish,"  she  went 
on.  "  We  are  over-ridden  by  these  Irregulars,  hang- 
ing all  along  our  border  as  their  base  of  operations. 
Why!  they  are  here,  there,  and  everywhere  —  may 
be  upon  us  any  day,  for  The  Outspan  would  be 


DIVIDED  107 

such  a  convenient  stronghold  for  them  —  yet,  to 
their  shame,  the  men  left  hereabouts  won't  lift  a  fin- 
ger to  resist  their  on-coming." 

"  But,  indeed,  they  shall,"  van  der  Merwe  replied 
after  a  pause,  pulling  his  pipe  from  between  his 
thickly-bearded  lips.  "  Heer!  they  shall  if  I've  got 
to  sjambok  them  up  to  the  scratch  I  That  is  what  I 
am  here  for.  De  Villiers  is  helping  to  shepherd  them 
from  the  lower  farms,  and  when  we've  got  them  to- 
gether in  camp  on  Louw's  Krantz  we'll  make  a  com- 
bined move  and  clear  the  bushveldt  of  these  ver- 
doeind  Colonists." 

"  If  only  they  were  a  British  regiment !  "  sighed 
Aletta,  regretfully,  "  we  should  very  soon  trap  them 
■ —  the  poor,  foot-sore,  veldt-sore  jonges.  But  these 
devils  from  Australia  and  the  Kaap  are  just  as  tough 
as  we  Boers  —  good  shots,  good  riders,  and  know 
how  to  ambush  as  well  as  we  do;  they'll  cop  our 
burghers  if  these  don't  exercise  slimness." 

"  Duivels  they  are,  and  care  not  for  God  nor  man ; 
they  know  how  to  play  all  our  games;  yet  to  trap 
them,  so  far,  we  cannot.  But  we'll  hang  on  to  them, 
and  harass  them,  nevertheless.  That  verdoemd  kape- 
tein  of  theirs  shall  not  have  the  honour  of  clearing 
the  bushveldt  for  England." 

Aletta  threw  back  her  head  and  shrilled  disdain- 
fully: 

"  I've  heard,  with  my  own  ears,  the  men  in  the 
bar  telling  the  tale  of  that  fierce,  wild  spirit.  *  Is 
he  devil  or  man*? '  they  ask,  and  tell  how  he  has 


io8  DIVIDED 

sworn  an  oath  by  all  that  he  holds  sacred  that  let 
but  the  British  Commander-in-Chief  give  him  a  free 
hand  and  he'll  bring  every  Boer  in  the  Northern 
Transvaal  to  heel." 

"  Ha!  Hal  He  boasts,  does  he?  "  said  the  predi- 
kant  grimly.  "  He  has  done  good  work  for  England, 
nevertheless  —  so  foolish  are  the  rooineks  —  nought 
but  evil  will  come  to  him  of  it." 

Again  Aletta  laughed  shrilly. 

"  My  word  I  Mynheer,  imagine  us  punishing  a 
man  who  got  the  better  of  our  enemies  in  battle  I  — 
who  cleared  our  bushveldt  for  us !  " 

"  It  is  the  Almighty  who  fighteth  for  us.  He  has 
blinded  the  eyes  of  the  Kapeteins  and  Generals  so 
that  the  rooineks  be  delivered  into  our  hands,"  van 
der  Merwe  remarked  with  pious  unction.  "  Maar 
this  man  —  a  devil  at  fighting  —  is  still  at  large  on 
our  borders,  and  able  to  do  us  mischief;  therefore 
we  must  get  our  men  together  and  tackle  his  crowd 
before  they  get  to  The  Outspan." 

"  I  shall  tell  George  what  you  propose  to  do,  Myn- 
heer," Aletta  said  gravely;  "  he  is  down  at  the  lands 
just  now.  .  .  .  But,  Mynheer,"  she  added  with  a 
sigh,  "  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  promise  for  him  to  join 
you." 

"  Impossible !  "  cried  the  predikant,  while  his  eyes 
twinkling  out  of  a  mass  of  fat  creases,  gazed  upon 
her  in  the  greatest  astonishment.  "  Impossible ! 
Would  you  hold  back  your  husband,  my  daughter*? 
That  I  never  will  credit  to  one  of  the  bravest  and 
most  patriotic  among  our  women !  " 


DIVIDED  109 

"  I  —  hold  him  back!  "  scoffed  Aletta.  "  Why, 
Mynheer,  I  have  tried  every  plan  known  to  woman 
to  bring  a  husband  to  reason  I  I've  coaxed,  threat- 
ened, wept,  entreated,  prayed  —  but  George  does 
not  see  it  —  not  as  we  do,  Oom  —  it's  just  the  cursed 
Engelsch  blood  in  his  veins,  I  suppose." 

"  Blood  creeps  where  it  cannot  walk,  that  is  cer- 
tamly  true,"  agreed  van  der  Merwe,  complacently. 
"  But  tell  me  this :  Was  he  born  in  the  Transvaal  or 
no?  *  Yes,'  then  there  you  have  it:  the  Transvaal  is 
his  land  and  he  must  defend  her,  as  must  all  her 
true-born  sons  in  this  her  hour  of  peril." 

**  How  clearly  you  put  it.  Mynheer !  How  beau- 
tifully !  —  just  like  the  Book  itself !  Ach !  then  —  if 
George  did  but  see  it  as  you  and  I  do  he  would  break 
through  the  ties  that  hold  him  back  —  his  family^ 
Mynheer  —  for  my  husband  is  one  of  the  most  con- 
scientious and  honourable  of  men." 

She  paused,  looking  eagerly  at  van  der  Merwe  for 
help  or  inspiration  in  the  difficulty  thus  presenting 
itself. 

"  You  mean,  daughter,  that  if  he  saw  it  to  be  his 
duty  to  fight,  then  he  would  join  our  burghers'?  "  the 
"■predikant  asked,  thoughtfully. 

"  Yes,  Mynheer,  that  is  how  it  is  with  my  hus- 
band; he  won't  be  frightened,  or  goaded,  or  forced 
into  joining  our  men,  but  he  may  be  reasoned 
into  it." 

"  Then  I  must  go  to  the  lands  and  reason  with 
him,"  van  der  Merwe  said,  rising;  and  picking  up  his 


no  DIVIDED 

roer  he  shouted  to  the  stable  boy  to  bring  round  his 
pony. 

"  I  will  go  with  you,  Mynheer,"  Aletta  volun- 
teered as  she  swept  her  apronful  of  pumpkin  peels 
and  pips  into  an  old  bucket  by  her  side,  and  tied  on 
her  blue  print  sunbonnet.  "  But  I  will  not  go  fur- 
ther than  the  first  ploughed  field,"  she  added;  "I 
will  sit  there,  behind  the  thornbushes,  so  that  George 
may  not  see  me,  and  perchance  harden  his  heart." 

The  two  talked  briskly  as  they  made  their  way 
along  the  rough  wagon-track  that  led  to  the  lands, 
where  the  work  of  turning  over  the  soil  for  the  spring 
crops  was  proceeding  apace. 

"  There  goes  my  husband  —  walking  along  after 
that  plough  in  the  third  field  from  this,"  said  Aletta, 
after  halting  for  a  pause  where  a  gate  in  the  barbed- 
wire  fencing  opened  into  the  lands;  she  stood  shield- 
ing her  eyes  from  the  rays  of  the  sun,  then  pointed 
again : 

"There  —  do  you  see,  Mynheer?" 

"  Ja^  ja.  Remain  here,  my  daughter,  I  will  return 
and  give  you  news,"  replied  van  der  Merwe,  and  he 
tramped  off  briskly,  skirting  the  freshly-turned 
mould. 

Aletta  sank  to  the  ground ;  the  thick  clump  of  the 
stunted  bush  shielded  her  from  the  chill  wind,  the 
sun  warmed  her  pleasantly.  She  lay  on  her  side,  her 
elbow  dug  into  the  loose  red  soil,  her  chin  resting  on 
her  sun-browned  knuckles.  She  wondered  what 
would  be  the  result  of  the  pastofs  errand.    What 


DIVIDED  111 

would  come  of  it"?  she  asked  herself.  Would  George 
be  won  over  to  see  that  it  was  his  positive  duty  to 
help  drive  back  the  invaders?  If  so,  God  be  thanked  I 
If  not  —  well,  it  meant  everything  to  her !  For  she 
had  vowed  her  vow,  and  her  life  with  the  man  she 
loved  was  finished  and  over  for  ever  did  he  refuse  to 
join  the  burgher  forces.  It  meant  everything  to  her, 
for  she  loved  him  —  yet,  as  she  told  herself  with  a 
burst  of  fierce  fanaticism,  she  loved  her  country 
better. 


n 


Meanwhile  the  portly  van  der  Merwe  strode  gal- 
lantly onward,  honestly  anxious  to  bring  to  George 
Brandon  a  sense  of  his  duty  to  the  beloved  mother- 
country. 

"  The  predikant,  baas,"  said  Zimbene,  the  native 
boy,  now  grown  to  manhood  and  holding  the  proud 
position  of  driver  of  a  team;  and  George,  looking 
round,  recognized  the  visitor.  His  heart  sank  a  little 
within  him,  as  he  grew  conscious  of  what  the  visit 
portended.  He,  too,  had  heard  rumours  of  van  der 
Merwe's  activities  among  the  Boer  farmers  of  the 
district.  "  It's  Aletta  and  her  people  have  set  him 
upon  me;  as  though  I  don't  feel  worried  enough  as  it 
is,"  he  thought,  with  some  natural  irritation. 

But  it  was  against  his  honest,  generous  nature  to 
bear  malice;  and  he  greeted  the  pastor  with  the  sin- 
cere heartiness  he  was  wont  to  accord  to  so  old  a 
friend  of  the  family. 

"  I  am  on  the  Lord's  business,"  van  der  Merwe 
broke  in  upon  the  welcome  without  any  preliminary 
skirmishings.  "  He  has  sent  me  to  call  you,  my  son," 
added  the  old  man,  still  grasping  George's  hand 
within  his  own.     "  His  message  to  Transvaalers  is : 

112 


DIVIDED  113 

*  The  enemies  of  the  Lord  shall  be  delivered  into 
your  hands  I  neck  and  heel  shall  ye  trample  upon 
their  slain.'  And  so  we  shall,"  he  concluded,  falling 
into  his  every-day  tones,  "  so  we  shall,  Brandon,  let 
us  but  unite  in  the  work  of  driving  back  these  jingoes 
from  off  our  borders." 

"  Mynheer,  I  fear  you  are  too  hopeful ;  England 
is  behind  these  jingoes,  you  must  remember.  This 
time  it's  Joe  Chamberlain,  not  Gladstone,  who's 
holding  the  reins  over  there:  Britain  will  never  let 
go  her  grip  on  the  Transvaal,  or  hand  it  back  to  us ; 
we  have  lost  our  Republic." 

The  old  man  "  pished  "  and  spat.  The  allusion' 
to  the  temper  of  the  British  Government  galled 
him.  The  loss  of  the  freedom  of  his  country  ap- 
palled him.  He  refused  to  contemplate  so  over- 
whelming a  disaster. 

"  Do  not  be  too  readily  cast  down,"  he  answered 
after  a  pause.  "  If  we  each  in  our  own  district  unite 
to  repel  the  invaders,  it  may  be  that  help  will  come 
to  us.  Nothing  is  impossible  to  the  Lord.  We  must 
have  faith.  Certain  it  is  that  the  greater  our  resist- 
ance, the  sooner  will  Britain  come  to  terms ;  the  like- 
lier will  our  brethren  under  the  golden  eagle,  or  the 
vierkleur,  be  moved  by  admiration  of  our  valorous 
deeds  to  send  help  to  us  from  across  the  ocean." 

George's  only  reply  was  a  faint  smile  and  motion 
of  negation,  but  van  der  Merwe,  unheeding  the  ges- 
ture, continued  eagerly  to  voice  his  mission. 

"  My  son,  you  are  a  burgher  of  our  beloved  Re- 


114  DIVIDED 

public  and  in  her  need  you  will  never  refuse  to  handle 
a  roer  on  her  behalf  —  nay,  nor  to  give  your  life  it- 
self, if  need  be  —  as  every  oprecht  man  must  cer- 
tainly be  willing  to  do.  I  say,  you  will  give  the 
needed  help,"  he  added,  holding  out  a  hand  to  check 
George's  attempted  interruption  —  "for  I  baptized 
you  when  an  infant  in  the  arms  of  that  saintly  mother 
now  gone  to  her  reward;  I  watched  your  growth 
through  boyhood,  and  it  was  these  lips  that  instructed 
you  in  the  catechism  and  pronounced  you  a  son  of  our 
kerk!  More,  Mynheer,  I  rejoiced  that  so  honest  and 
brave  a  young  kerel  should  wed  with  the  lion-hearted 
daughter  of  my  oldest  friend  Jan  du  Bruyn,  on  the 
day  that  I  made  you  and  Aletta  man  and  wife.  My 
son,  you  will  never  disappoint  an  old  man  who  be- 
lieves the  very  highest  of  you.  It  lies  in  your  power 
to  do  your  country  an  immense  service,  for  you  can 
be  my  right  hand  in  this  business  of  the  great  drive 
that  shall  sweep  our  enemies  back  to  the  sea." 

"  You  have  been  a  kind,  good  friend  to  us  all ;  we 
English  hereabout  know  no  other  pastor  or  teacher 
but  you,  Mynheer,"  began  George,  but  van  der 
Merwe  interposed  as  in  amaze: 

"  Engelsch!  Engelsch!  I  know  no  Engelsch  or 
Dutch  in  my  flock;  only  '^ransvaalers,  my  son,  who 
will  help  defend  the  Transvaal." 

"I  see  only  a  divided  duty,  Mynheer,"  said 
George,  suddenly  resolved  in  his  determination  to 
accept  advice  from  this  the  only  spiritual  father  he 
had  ever  known.    "  There  is  my  heart  and  my  con- 


DIVIDED  115 

science  insistently  urging  me  to  my  duty  of  joining 
our  burghers;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  my  whole 
soul  and  mind  and  spirit  revolts  at  the  idea  of  fight- 
ing my  blood-brothers." 

"  '  Blood  creeps  where  it  cannot  walk,'  as  the  Boer 
proverb  runs,"  assented  the  predikant^  nodding  his 
grizzled  head;  "  but  that  feeling  you  must  set  aside; 
a  man  cannot  serve  two  masters,  as  the  Book  saith." 

"  I  cannot  set  it  aside,"  said  George,  hotly. 
"  Blood  will  not  be  thus  easily  dismissed;  my  father, 
my  brother,  my  sister  —  these  are  one  with  me,  one 
with  our  foes;  and  that  is  the  naked  truth,  cloak  it 
as  you  may.  I  owe  it  to  my  country  to  defend  it 
from  invasion;  yet  at  the  same  time  I  may  not  war 
against  its  invaders.  That  is  the  riddle.  Solve  it, 
if  it  lies  in  your  power  as  an  honest  man  so  to  do, 
and  I  will  welcome  your  solution;  for,  indeed.  Myn- 
heer, I  find  myself  confused  as  to  my  right  course  in 
this  business,  and  so  I  frankly  own  to  you." 

For  some  moments  van  der  Merwe  smoked  in 
silence,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  the  point  of  his 
thick  veldschoen  prodding  at  the  loosened  soil.  Then 
he  raised  his  head  and  faced  George,  who  towered 
above  him,  his  hands  thrust  in  his  pockets,  his  deep- 
set  blue  eyes  alight  with  emotion  and  intensity  of 
feeling  as  he  voiced  the  terrible  position  in  which  he 
found  himself  placed. 

The  predikant  spoke  with  conviction. 

"  I  am  a  Boer,  and  a  Transvaaler,  and  the  British 
are  the  invaders  of  onze  land;  nevertheless  I  can 


ii6  DIVIDED 

respect  your  scruples  —  the  scruples  a  man  as  honest 
and  courageous  as  yourself  must  certainly  feel  in 
this  lamentable  affair.  Yet  listen,  my  son,  and  I 
will  point  out  to  you  the  middle  road,  which  is  the 
road  Heaven  means  you  to  take.  Cast  in  your  lot 
with  us,  fearing  not  at  all  that  the  blood  of  your 
blood-brothers  will  be  required  at  your  hands,  since 
I,  who  am  practically  head  of  the  commando,  shall 
respect  those  scruples  in  a  practical  way." 

He  paused,  while  George,  with  eyes  still  fixed  in- 
tently upon  him,  said  not  a  word.  Presently,  he 
continued : 

"  Our  object  in  getting  together  these  bush  veldt 
burghers  is,  as  you  are  aware,  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
checking  the  Irregulars  on  our  border.  Let  us  but 
keep  them,  until  Peace  is  arranged,  from  making  one 
of  those  devilish  drives  across  the  Northern  Trans- 
vaal, such  as  they  have  elsewhere  so  successfully  ac- 
complished, and  we  ask  no  more.  Only  to  keep  them 
off  Northern  'transvaal  soil.  Now  in  order  to  do 
this,  we  need  merely  to  harass  them,  to  trap  them,  to 
ambush  them,  and  they  will  keep  on  the  Rhodesian 
side  of  the  border.  There  need  be  no  fighting  at  all 
—  no  big  battle,  for,  indeed,  we  must  never  let  it 
come  to  that.  No,  no;  just  to  harry  and  hustle  them, 
and  keep  them  at  their  proper  distance  so  that  when 
our  Generals  down  south  have  come  to  terms  we  may 
be  found  an  unconquered  people  —  our  roers  in  our 
hands." 

That  was  the  dream  of  every  Northern  Trans- 


DIVIDED  117 

vaaler.  George  knew,  and  nodded,  his  calm  blue 
eyes  now  enthusiastic  as  were  the  little  twinkling 
orbs  of  the  soldici-predikanl, 

"Join  us  in  this  noble  attempt,  my  son;  I  give 
you  my  word,  you  shall  never  be  called  upon  to  fire  a 
shot  at  your  kin.  Only  join  us,  and  help  with  the 
cattle  and  commissariat.  You  can  be  of  the  greatest 
help  to  me  and  our  Commandant  —  old  Piet  Koet- 
zee  —  in  arranging  the  transport,  and  working  out 
our  marches  and  numbers  and  so  forth,  being  a  man 
of  sense  and  education  as  you  are,  my  son;  for  the 
men  in  this  part  are  ignorant  as  baboons,  most  of 
them,  no  good  at  all  except  at  shooting  straight  and 
riding  far  and  fast  —  and,  thank  the  good  Lord, 
that  they  can  do." 

George  welcomed  this  possible  solution  of  the  tan- 
gle —  a  middle  road  which  he  might  possibly  con- 
sider. His  joining  the  Boer  forces  gathered  in  van 
der  Merwe's  commando  —  if  but  for  a  few  weeks  — 
would  appease  Aletta.  It  would,  in  a  sense,  satisfy 
his  own  conscience.  He  would  feel  he  was  doing  his 
share  as  a  burgher  in  the  defence  of  hearth  and  home, 
in  holding  an  invading  force  at  bay,  if  only  by  at- 
tending to  those  necessary  details  which  fall  to  the 
lot  of  the  non-fighters.  Still,  there  remained  to 
trouble  him  the  thought  of  his  father's  bitter  disap- 
pointment at  his  decision ;  of  his  sister's  heavy  sorrow 
and  cruel  suspense  during  his  absence  at  the  front ;  of 
Thane's  fierce  anger,  and  of  the  consequences  of  that 
anger  upon  his  impatient,  iron-willed  nature.    What 


ii8  DIVIDED 

could  compensate  to  these  beloved  ones,  so  dear  to 
him,  for  such  cruel  suffering  as  he  would  be  inflicting 
on  them,  George  Brandon  now  asked  himself,  and 
there  was  a  cloud  on  his  fair  face  as  he  replied  to  the 
eagerly-expectant  predzkant: 

"  Mynheer,  you  have  pointed  out  the  middle  path 
and  I  thank  you  for  so  doing.  Whether  I  can  take 
it  remains  to  be  seen.  I  will  think  it  over,  consult 
my  own  people,  and  if  possible " 

"  You  will  take  it  —  you  will  join  us  next  week. 
We  meet  at  Louw's  Krantz,  there  to  form  camp  as 
our  base  of  operations.  De  Villiers  and  his  lot  join 
the  men  I  am  collecting,  and  if  all  we  hear  is  true 
there  will  be  a  couple  of  hundred  of  our  bushveldt 
farmers  —  brave  fellows  all  —  keen  trackers,  good 
marksmen,  the  pick  of  our  burghers.  Let  us  but  get 
together  and  these  godless  Irregulars  will  never  dare 
attempt  that  drive  across  our  land  of  which  we  hear 
rumour." 

"  The  Irregulars  will  dare  much.  Mynheer.  They 
have  men  for  leaders,  officers  who  will  stop  at  noth- 
ing, men  who  have  lived  all  their  lives  in  bush  coun- 
try and  can  ride  far  and  shoot  straight  with  the  best 
of  our  burghers  —  make  no  mistake  about  that." 

"  But  these  men  —  it  is  true  they  fear  neither 
devil  nor  man,  and  are  up  in  bush-craft  and  guerilla 
fighting  —  but  have  they  the  free  hand,  Brandon*?  " 

"  They  take  it  —  not  stopping  for  orders  at 
times,"  George  said,  dryly. 

"  As  when  that  kapetein  of  theirs  —  that  wild,  re- 


DIVIDED  119 

vengeful  soul,  shot  down  the  Boer  prisoners,  not 
sparing  even  the  wounded  nor  the  minister  of  the 
Lord,"  van  der  Merwe  replied  with  some  heat  in 
his  tones. 

But  George's  blue  eyes  never  wavered,  and  the 
predikant  shrank  a  little  under  their  keen,  honest 
gaze. 

" Mynheer  knows  the  reason"  was  all  the  young 
man  said 

"I  do  —  indeed  I  do,"  van  der  Merwe  replied 
heartily,  forced  against  his  will,  by  the  simple  but 
unmistakable  sincerity  of  George  Brandon's  look 
and  tone,  into  a  true  confession  of  his  own  par- 
ticular sentiments  in  this  matter.  "  The  Australian 
is  a  brave  man,  who  dare  deny  it?  It  was  a  *  tit-for- 
tat '  as  you  Engelsch  say.  His  friend  was  —  well, 
let  us  say  led  into  a  trap " 

"  Murdered,"  interrupted  George  in  slow,  firm 
tones.  "  Man  to  man,  as  we  talk  together  as  honest 
men,  let  us  call  things  by  their  right  names.  His 
friend  was  deceived  by  the  Boers  —  rode  unsuspect- 
ingly into  their  arms  —  and  then  was  shot  down  in 
cold  blood." 

"  Soh,"  admitted  van  der  Merwe  cautiously, 
"  then  came  the  sequel;  and  the  man,  risking  his  own 
life  —  for  I  am  told  a  court-martial  awaits  him  — 
avenged  his  friend !  Well,  we  Boers  respect  courage, 
bravery,  contempt  of  life  above  all  things.  To  us 
these  are  the  highest  of  all  virtues,  for  only  by  the 
exercise  of  dauntless  courage  did  our  fathers  win  for 


120  DIVIDED 

themselves  and  for  us  this  free  Republic;  therefore 
we  Transvaalers  above  all  others  know  how  to  appre- 
ciate this  man's  fierce  yet  brave  act  of  vengeance 
upon  the  mur  —  trappers  of  his  friend,  and  the  man 
himself  commands  our  respect." 

"  Say  *  justice  '  instead  of  '  vengeance  '  and  you've 
got  it  quite  right,  Mynheer,"  George  said  in  kindly 
tones,  for  his  heart  warmed  to  old  van  der  Merwe  for 
his  manly  confession  of  the  truth  concerning  this  — 
one  of  those  sad  incidents  for  which  war  alone  is  ever 
responsible.  "  We  South  Africans  know  war  is  a 
cruel,  bitter  thing,  because  it  touches  our  doorposts 
and  enters  our  doorways,  and  so  we  have  the  sense  to 
recognize  that  it  cannot  be  carried  on  '  in  kid  gloves ' 
as  they  say." 

"That  is  one  of  those  verdoemd  stupid  theories 
the  British  soldier  gets  a  grip  of  and  seems  unable  to 
let  go,"  rejoined  the  Dutchman.  "  But  war's  here 
—  upon  us  —  as  you  say,  my  son,  therefore  let  us 
each  as  God-fearing  men  take  our  share  in  the  task 
before  us ;  mine  —  as  a  man  of  the  kerk  —  is  simply 
to  organize,  plan,  arrange.  And  you  will  be  my 
right  hand  in  this  work  —  no  fighting  for  you  nor 
for  me  —  our  heads  will  work  for  onze  land."  He 
grasped  George's  hand  in  farewell  as  he  spoke  with 
unusual  enthusiasm,  "  Yes,  our  heads  will  work,  so 
that  with  wisdom  and  the  force  of  our  roers  com- 
bined, we  may  hold  off  the  invaders  from  setting  foot 
in  the  Northern  Transvaal  until  Peace  comes." 

"  May  it  come  soon  -^  the  sooner  the  better  for 


DIVIDED  121 

us,"  George  replied,  but  his  tones  were  not  very 
hopeful. 

"  —  and  on  our  own  terms.  The  Engelsch^  God 
be  praised,  are  ever  foolish  in  throwing  away  that 
for  which  their  bravest  and  most  valiant  sons  have 
shed  their  blood,"  added  van  der  Merwe,  as  he 
turned  in  the  direction  of  his  horse  which  the  stable- 
boy  now  led  to  within  a  few  yards  of  the  spot  where 
the  men  conversed  together.  *'  Farewell,  my  son, 
and  I  shall  look  for  you  early  next  week  —  at 
Louw's  Krantz,  where  we  camp,"  he  concluded,  as 
he  climbed  into  the  saddle,  and  so  departed  at  a 
slow  jog-trot  along  the  ploughed  fields  and  towards 
the  next  farmstead,  stopping  only  by  the  way  to  re- 
port to  the  expectant  Aletta  of  his  success. 


Ill 


As  he  jogged  along  down  the  bridle-path  that  led  to 
the  foot  of  the  mountain,  elated  with  the  result  of 
his  morning's  work,  the  extravagant  thanks  of  the 
jubilant  Aletta  still  ringing  in  his  ears,  van  der 
Merwe's  little  grey  eyes  peered  keenly  through  the 
bush  to  where  on  the  bank  of  the  stream  a  solitary 
figure  stood.  He  drew  rein,  looked  more  attentively, 
picked  out  the  wiry,  khaki-clad  figure,  then  nodding 
a  "  Soh  —  the  Boer  prisoner  —  we  must  keep  an 
eye  on  that  kerel^^  proceeded  on  his  way  to  du 
Bruyn's  Rust. 

Woodward,  lost  in  thought,  remained  deaf  to  the 
pony's  jog-trot.  One  hand  was  sunk  deeply  in  his 
pocket,  the  other  held  a  line.  By  his  side,  almost 
hidden  among  the  tall  bulrushes  that  grew  profusely 
on  either  storm-washed,  jagged  bank,  was  a  roughly- 
woven  basket,  partly  filled  with  glistening,  scaly, 
river  "  springers "  together  with  a  couple  of  still 
wriggling  and  exceedingly  lively  eels.  Woodward 
mechanically  held  the  line,  but  his  thoughts  were  not 
with  his  angling,  and  after  a  few  more  catches  he  de- 
sisted and  making  a  nest  for  himself  among  the  green 
waving  rushes  settled  down  for  a  smoke. 

122 


DIVIDED  123 

Yet  again,  through  the  clouds  that  curled  upward, 
a  face  persistently  came  and  went,  a  form  hovered 
and  disappeared.  It  was  the  face  and  the  form  of 
the  woman  in  whom,  since  their  first  meeting.  Wood- 
ward had  felt  more  than  a  passing  interest.  He  re- 
called that  first  meeting,  and  how  unattractive  she 
had  then  appeared  to  him  —  this  girl  —  she  was 
little  more  —  whom  he  now  admitted  aroused  in 
him  the  strongest  sense  of  interest,  the  liveliest  feel- 
ing of  curiosity.  He  liked  Margery  Brandon,  he 
told  himself,  that  was  really  the  proper  word  to  fit 
his  feelings  for  her.  He  admired  her,  he  wished  for 
her  friendship ;  but  —  and  here  was  the  rub  —  had 
he  made  any  progress  toward  friendship  with  her 
since  their  first  meeting'?  He  passed  his  hand  across 
his  brow  as  he  lay  on  his  back  snugly  sheltered  by  the 
tall  rushes,  and  stared  frowningly  upward  into  the 
far-off  unflecked  blue  of  the  winter  sky;  then  an- 
swered the  question  with  a  negative.  There  was 
something  about  her  —  puzzling  —  not  altogether 
satisfactory  —  he  could  get  no  further  than  that. 

Woodward,  as  he  lay  there  by  the  stream,  listening 
to  the  strange,  almost  human,  articulation  of  its  tale 
of  life  and  life's  eternal  verities  —  love,  sorrow, 
death  —  fell  into  one  of  those  deep  reveries  in  which, 
as  in  a  vivid  vision,  we  are  enabled  to  trace  step  by 
step  every  inch  of  the  road  that  has  led  us  to  a  given 
point.  He  recalled  with  amazement  his  former  in- 
difference to  the  white-faced,  weary-eyed,  silent 
woman  who,  in  her  plain  dark  dress,  had  passed  un- 


124  DIVIDED 

obtrusively  in  and  out  of  the  room  intent  on  house- 
hold cares.  He  remembered  how  he  had  set  her 
down  as  wife  to  young  Thane  Brandon,  mother  of 
the  red-lipped  precocious  child;  as  a  drudge  unworthy 
of  notice,  with  the  sweets  of  life  no  longer  within  her 
reach  and  the  fires  of  life's  golden  prime  already 
burnt  out  within  her  middle-aged  frame.  She  had 
looked  old,  forbidding,  unhappy,  yet  even  then  he 
had  applied  the  term  "  old-young  "  in  his  classifica- 
tion of  her.  Some  spark  of  her  youth  must  even  then 
have  struck  upon  his  sub-conscious  recognition  of 
the  personality  of  Margery  Brandon ;  dolt  —  duffer 

—  he  now  called  himself;  and  told  himself  she  was 
very,  very  young  in  some  respects,  with  a  full  flow- 
ing tide  of  blood  and  life  and  vigour  and  emotion 
lurking  somewhere  out  of  sight  behind  that  mask  of 
indifference,  weariness,  primness  she  so  frequently 
assumed. 

He  had  taken  her  for  a  white  slave,  a  pack-horse 

—  harnessed  to  the  kitchen  stove,  the  wash-tub,  and 
the  mending-basket  —  doing  a  twenty-hour  day's 
work  to  her  husband's  eight.  He  knew  other  house- 
holds in  which  such  an  arrangement  held  good;  the 
wives  —  "  old-young  "  as  was  Margery  Brandon  — =- 
were  no  longer  wives,  but  hired  servants,  with  the 
disadvantages  of  no  wages  or  days  off. 

Then  had  followed  a  further  disillusionment,  and 
he  had  learned  she  was  a  daughter  of  the  house  — 
unwed.  Woman's  lot  had  pinned  her  down  to  the 
narrowest  sphere  of  woman's  existence  —  to  home 


DIVIDED  125 

duties  in  the  home  of  her  parents.  Her  Ufe  had  not 
blossomed  in  life's  fullest  and  deepest  sense;  she  had 
lived  unmated,  single  as  the  individual  blossom  that 
is  brought  into  existence  by  Nature's  deep  contriv- 
ance, that  arrives  at  maturity,  but  its  being  lacking 
the  quickening  influence  of  some  responsive  twin  ele- 
ment, it  stands  awhile  —  fresh,  fragrant,  sweet,  ex- 
pectant —  then  at  last,  by  the  Same  Nature's  irrev- 
ocable laws,  grows  sere  and  faded,  withers  by  slow 
degrees,  and  changing  into  the  drab  stalk  of  old  age 
passes  into  oblivion  with  Nature's  prime  object  in 
creating  it  forcibly  frustrated.  Woodward's  inter- 
est in  Margery  Brandon  on  that  first  day  of  their 
acquaintance  had  stirred  within  him  nothing  deeper 
than  a  passing  sense  of  pity  for  the  individual  wom- 
an, a  feeling  of  disgust  at  the  apparent  waste  of  life. 
But  on  this  had  followed  the  first  night  at  The 
Outspan,  a  night  on  which  —  as  he  yawned  wearily 
and  tossed  from  right  to  left  upon  the  narrow  iron 
bedstead  in  the  small,  white-washed,  mud-floored, 
humble  apartment  —  he  had  told  himself  that  since 
he  was  to  be  kept  a  prisoner  at  this  wayside  home- 
stead of  the  back-veldt  he  certainly  ran  no  danger  of 
losing  his  heart  to  the  daughter  of  the  house.  So  he 
had  slept  at  last,  slept  soundly  until  the  chill 
touch  of  the  dawn  came  creeping  over  the  bare, 
brown,  frostbitten  waste,  and  he  had  waked  —  to 
what?  Was  it  to  meet  his  fate*?  Woodward  smiled 
and  told  himself  very  emphatically  that  he  liked  the 
girl ;  loving  was  quite  another  matter. 


126  DIVIDED 

He  had  roamed  the  world  over,  had  seen  women 
of  many  climes  and  lands  —  had  criticized  various 
types  of  beauty.  The  faces  of  many  lovely  women 
he  could  now  recall  as  he  lay  gazing  upward  into  the 
soft,  blue  ether,  but  they  had  stirred  in  him  not  one 
tithe  of  the  interest  aroused  within  his  imaginings  by 
this  daughter  of  The  Outspan,  despite  her  veiled  eyes 
and  unattractive  bearing. 

With  the  dawn  had  come  that  sharply  awakened 
curiosity  concerning  her,  which  still  obsessed  his 
imagination.  He  found  himself  continually  think- 
ing about  her,  constantly  questioning  with  himself 
as  to  whether  she  were  young  or  old,  pretty  or  plain. 
Which  was  the  mask?  Which  the  true  self?  The 
scene  at  dawn  had  revealed  her  as  human,  as  impul- 
sive, as  something  more  than  the  silent,  apathetic, 
indifferent  being  she  had  previously  appeared  —  had 
made  herself  appear.  Her  pluck,  her  passion,  her 
self-forgetfulness  in  the  difficult  task  of  an  evident 
attempt  to  hold  back  her  brother  from  compromising 
himself  with  the  daughter  of  the  enemy,  excited  his 
admiration.  He  loved  grit.  Courage  in  man  or 
woman  appealed  to  him.  From  that  dawn  dated  his 
curiosity  about  her,  his  warm  liking  for  her,  the  wish 
for  a  closer  friendship  with  this  incomprehensible 
woman. 

Was  it  the  faint  light  that  had  deceived  him,  or 
had  he  in  reality  seen  those  dull  eyes  of  hers  alive 
with  passion,  fire  and  gleaming  beauty,  such  as  they 
had  appeared  to  him  when  she  started  and  jumped 


DIVIDED  127 

up  from  her  crouching  position  on  the  bench  and  had 
gazed  with  that  intent,  pentrating  gaze  into  his  — 
the  eyes  of  a  woman  for  whom  a  man  would  dare 
much"?  The  dimness  around  had,  no  doubt,  been  re- 
sponsible for  his  fancy,  nevertheless  it  remained  a 
firm  conviction  and  he  saw  still  those  wild,  alluring 
eyes,  the  glow  on  the  white  face  marking  the  straight 
features  beneath  the  heavy  black  brows  framed  by 
the  long,  dark  folds  of  her  flowing  hair. 

Yes,  in  that  light  she  had  appeared  a  changed  crea- 
ture from  the  heavy-eyed,  silent  woman  of  the  pre- 
vious afternoon.  It  was  only  in  that  hour  of  the 
dawn  that  Woodward,  by  a  strange  chance,  had  been 
allowed  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  what  he  now  conceived 
to  be  the  true  Margery  Brandon  —  a  strong,  forceful 
personality;  a  woman  of  vitality,  of  charm  and  vig- 
our —  young,  enigmatic,  fascinating  —  one  who 
could  dominate  in  outstanding  measure  the  powers  of 
love,  passion,  devotion;  one  who  could  love  to  the 
end,  and  hold  love  to  the  end!  On  his  couch  of 
rushes  he  laughed  aloud  and  a  bird  in  the  bush  twit- 
tered lightly  in  response.  She,  a  dull,  lifeless  drudge ! 
he  had  been  a  bit  of  a  fool  when  he  had  set  her  down 
as  that  I 

But  chance  alone  had  enlightened  him  —  chance 
and  a  wild  slip  of  a  Boer  girl  enamoured  of  a  fiery- 
tempered  young  Colonist.  The  dawn  had  brought  to 
him  a  chance  revelation  that  might  otherwise  never 
have  been  revealed  to  him.  For:  "I've  tried  to  bring 
back  that  look  to  her  face,  but  I'm  hanged  if  I  can," 


128  DIVIDED 

Woodward  reflected  grimly.  He  had  tried,  but  al- 
ways unsuccessfully,  to  learn  something  of  herself, 
of  her  attitude  towards  life,  of  the  experiences 
through  which  she  had  passed.  That  she  had  touched 
deep  waters,  he  felt  assured.  But  with  a  quiet,  al- 
most loftly  disdain,  she  had  repelled  the  personal 
note  in  their  otherwise  friendly  converse.  Long 
evenings  they  had  spent  together  as  he  smoked  over 
the  fire  in  the  room  where  she  sat  with  the  eternal 
mending-basket,  her  brow  touched  with  thought,  her 
eyes  dull  or  enigmatic.  Pleasant  evenings  they  had 
been,  though :  Babs  helped  to  make  things  hum  until 
her  bedtime,  after  which  the  talk  changed  from  jest 
to  earnest,  from  commonplace  to  matters  of  serious 
import  —  yet  always  that  one  impregnable  barrier, 
that  detached  attitude,  screening  from  view  her  real 
self,  her  real  beliefs  and  convictions  of  a  personal 
nature  which  Woodward  had  found  impossible  either 
to  sweep  aside,  to  pierce,  or  to  penetrate. 

But  to  penetrate  the  mystery,  delve  to  those  in- 
most fastnesses  where  the  true  Margery  Brandon 
lived  and  moved  and  had  her  being,  was  the  purpose 
he  now  set  himself  to  achieve.  It  was  curiosity  and 
liking  —  simply  curiosity  and  a  friendly  liking  for 
this  woman,  and  a  kindly  intent  toward  her  —  that 
caused  her  so  to  haunt  his  imagination,  Woodward 
told  himself  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  and  an 
uplifting  of  the  eyebrows  as  he  at  last  lazily  got  to 
his  feet,  knocked  the  ash  from  his  pipe,  picked  up 
the  basket  of  fish,  and  turned  along  the  river  side  on 
his  homeward  way. 


DIVIDED  129 

"  I  wish  to  be  her  friend,  nothing  but  her  friend," 
he  assured  himself  emphatically.  To  him  she  seemed 
a  lonely  soul  living  in  the  bosom  of  her  own  people, 
yet  strangely,  at  the  same  time,  living  within  a  world 
of  her  own.  To  whom  but  to  a  faithful  friend  would 
she  grant  admission  to  that  uncharted  shore?  But 
having  found  such  a  friend  —  one  with  whom  she 
could  feel  assured  of  mutual  sympathies  and  mutual 
understandings  —  and  having  granted  to  him  the 
key  of  the  inner  chambers  of  her  heart,  how  great  a 
consolation  would  be  hers  in  the  exchange  of  sympa- 
thetic thoughts,  of  mutual  sentiments,  of  sacred  se- 
cret outpourings  of  things  past,  things  present,  things 
to  come,  which  now,  locked  closely  within  her  veiled 
heart,  weighed  heavily,  because  unshared,  upon  her 
mind  and  soul.  She  was  starving  for  want  of  friend- 
ship and  sympathy  and  communion  with  some  other 
soul  —  the  bread  by  which  man  lives. 

He  lifted  his  eyes  and  saw  the  woman  of  whom 
he  had  been  dreaming,  over  whom  he  had  been  puz- 
zling. She  sat  before  the  table  on  the  back  verandah 
—  a  tray  of  cups  and  saucers  before  her,  Babs  busily 
fetching  and  carrying. 

"  There  you  are,"  the  child  cried  brightly,  "  just 
in  time  for  afternoon  coffee."  She  ran  down  the 
steps,  caught  his  hands  and  peered  into  the  basket. 
"  One,  two,  three,"  she  counted  joyfully.  "  Oh, 
Margey,  he  has  caught  most  lovely  springers!  May 
we  have  them  for  supper?  " 


IV 


"  For  breakfast,  young  lady,"  corrected  Woodward, 
as  he  passed  the  basket  into  her  hands  and  sat  down 
to  the  table. 

"  They  are  beauties,"  said  Margery,  peering  into 
the  basket  at  Babs'  command  and  touching  the  gleam- 
ing scales  with  her  finger-tips.  "  Take  them  to  old 
Lisbeth,  dear." 

"  And  tell  her  to  fry  them  for  supper"  Babs  cast 
a  backward  glance  of  laughing  defiance  at  the  young 
man  as  she  put  special  emphasis  on  the  last  word  and 
went  indoors. 

Woodward  shook  a  reproving  finger  at  her;  then 
his  eyes  turned  and  rested  upon  the  enigma  who  was 
pouring  out  the  coffee  in  quite  a  matter-of-fact 
fashion. 

"  Tired*?  "  he  asked,  as  he  took  the  cup  from  her 
hand.  It  was  a  square,  capable  hand,  brown  but 
shapely;  a  hand  to  whose  possessor,  Woodward  told 
himself,  treachery,  meanness  and  duplicity  were 
utterly  foreign. 

"No,"  she  answered  in  the  cool,  somewhat  sur- 
prised, wholly  musical  slur  he  knew  so  well  and 
awaited  with  ever  fresh  interest  and  pleasure. 
"  What  makes  you  ask?    I  have  had  nothing  extra 

130 


DIVIDED  131 

to  do  to-day,"  she  went  on,  not  seemingly  expecting 
any  reply  to  her  question.  "  We  have  had  no  Boer 
troopers  calling  for  meals  —  they're  all  clearing  out 
from  here  —  after  the  Irregulars." 

A  lowering  frown,  called  up  by  the  reference  to 
the  hateful  conflict,  settled  on  her  brow,  which  threw 
into  lines  of  almost  melancholy  gravity  the  rest  of 
her  face. 

"  I  asked,"  said  Woodward,  pointing  to  her  fore- 
head, *'  because  of  that.    Trouble  sits  on  your  brow." 

"  *  Trouble  is  the  salt  of  life,'  says  the  fool  who 
is  too  big  a  fool  to  feel  it,"  she  replied  in  a  half- 
mocking,  half-serious  tone.  "  *  Trouble  is  the  refiner 
that  separates  the  gold  from  the  dross,'  says  the  dis- 
trict visitor  to  the  poor,  wretched  creature  who  has  a 
sick  husband  and  a  dozen  hungry  children  looking 
to  her  and  to  her  sweated  wages  to  keep  them  from 
starvation.  Trouble,  /  say,  Captain  Woodward,  is 
the  breath  of  life;  so  what's  the  use  of  our  discussing 
a  thing  as  inevitable  as  breathing*?  —  a  part  of  life 
we  each  had  best  bear  in  silence." 

"  No,  my  dear  friend  —  may  I  call  you  that, 
though?    Would  you  be  offended?  " 

Indifference  sat  upon  every  feature  of  her  now 
utterly  expressionless  face.  So  dull  were  her  eyes 
when  she  threw  a  momentary  glance  across  the  table 
in  his  direction  that  Woodward  could  have  taken  an 
oath  that  never  had  these  same  eyes  gleamed  with 
the  lightning-like  flash  of  those  wild  eyes  of  his 
Imagination. 


132  DIVIDED 

"  Why  should  I  be  offended*?  "  she  asked  with  the 
utmost  composure. 

"  Oh  —  well  — '■  I  don't  know."  He  was  furious 
with  himself,  yet  could  find  no  intelligible  reply  to 
the  question  as  she  framed  it.  "  You  see,  I  have  not 
known  you  so  very  long,"  he  explained  lamely. 

"  Not  for  long  as  time  counts  in  civilized  com- 
munities," she  replied  calmly,  "  but  here  on  the  veldt 
with  its  lonely  little  dorps  and  farms  scattered  here 
and  there,  peopled  by  primitive  and  simple  beings,  it 
is  different.  In  this  country  every  stranger  who 
comes  to  your  door  is  your  friend  until  he  proves 
himself  your  enemy." 

"  Yes,"  he  replied  with  heartiness.  "  Africa  is  a 
genial,  open-handed  country,  and  her  great-hearted 
children  are  wise  in  their  brotherliness  and  true  hos- 
pitality; in  their  simple,  kindly  sincerities.  But, 
since  I  may  call  you  my  friend  —  and  think  of  you 
as  one  of  the  best  of  friends  a  man  ever  was  blest 
with  —  let  me  persuade  you  to  moderate  your  views 
of  trouble.  There  are  times  in  life  when  trouble  mer- 
cifully forgets  to  visit  us,  and  there  are  compensa- 
tions in  life  which  mercifully  are  sufficiently  power- 
ful to  cause  us  to  forget  trouble." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  lightly. 

"Then  my  remark  merely  argued  a  sceptical  or 
morbid  cast  of  mind,  capable  of  destroying  the  best 
of  friendships,"  she  admitted  carelessly. 

"  I  shall  not  be  frightened  by  that,"  he  laughed. 
"  I  mean  to  hold  you  to  your  bond  —  my  friend." 


DIVIDED  133 

He  jumped  to  his  feet  and  put  out  his  hand. 
Again  she  very  slightly  shrugged  her  shoulders  but 
did  not  refuse  his  grasp.  As  he  stood  before  her, 
magnetic  and  alive,  she  felt  in  that  deep  centre  of  her 
consciousness  where  she  brooded  and  agonized  — 
alone  and  alive  to  her  bitter  loneliness  —  that  here 
before  her,  sent  unexpectedly  into  her  life,  was  a 
man  worth  having  for  a  friend.  Despite  the  dark 
mask  she  habitually  wore,  beneath  the  air  of  slight 
disdain  and  utter  indifference  that  wrapped  her  like 
some  outer  vestment,  she  realized  in  a  strange,  fright- 
ened way  that  some  chord  within  her  being,  long 
silent  and  unstirred,  had  been  touched  and  played 
upon  and  had  responded,  however  slightly,  to  the 
skilful  handling  of  the  player. 

But  of  this  she  made  no  sign ;  only,  as  he  released 
her  hand  and  Babs  came  running  back,  she  asked  her- 
self what  attracted  her  to  this  man.  The  mystery 
that  hides  beneath  the  surface  of  all  things,  the  magic 
of  life  that  insistently  thrusts  itself  upon  us,  surged 
up  and  overwhelmed  thought.  She  was  like  some- 
one moving  in  order  to  the  tune  of  an  ordinary  life 
who  suddenly  is  stopped  by  the  sound  of  a  different 
note,  and  stands  —  with  all  his  senses  astrain  —  too 
mystified  and  intimidated  to  investigate  the  nature 
of  that  change  of  tune. 


"  George,  you  can't  mean  it?  " 

Margery's  low  voice  rang  out  on  the  quiet  of  the 
big  kitchen,  and  the  black  rafters  aloft  echoed  her 
cry.  Her  sleeves  rolled  up  to  her  dimpled  elbows,  her 
firm,  round  arms  vigorously  kneading  at  a  batch  of 
rusks  for  which  the  expectant  Dutch  oven  waited 
red-hot,  she  paused  and  bent  her  dark  brows  intently 
upon  her  brother's  face. 

George,  sitting  on  a  corner  of  the  dresser  at  which 
she  worked,  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Margery,  you  won't  refuse  to  stand  by  me"?  " 

His  voice  subdued  her  hot  anger. 

"  When  have  I  ever  turned  from  you  in  your 
need?  "  she  dernanded  huskily,  looking  across  at  the 
leaping  flames  that  her  brother  might  not  see  the 
mist  that  blinded  her  sight. 

But  he  was  conscious  of  the  tears  in  her  voice,  and 
his  heart  agonized  in  silent  sympathy  with  the  bitter 
pain  she  was  endeavouring  to  conceal,  "  To  spare 
my  feelings,'*  he  thought,  with  a  fresh  rush  of  pity 
and  a  fresh  tug  at  those  lifelong  chords  that  linked 
his  heart  in  true  affection  to  hers. 

"  There  is  no  one  but  you,  dear,  who  would  look 
at  what  I  am  doing  in  a  reasonable  light  —  no  one 

134 


DIVIDED  135 

who  would  so  thoroughly  understand;  and  I  can't 
complain,"  he  added  soberly,  "  for  it  must  seem  just 
bravado  or  wilful  imkindness  to  those  who  don't  feel 
as  I  do." 

He  was  shy  of  confessing,  even  to  the  sister  so  near 
to  his  heart  as  was  Margery,  how  duty  impelled  him 
on  to  the  course  he  needs  must  follow.  He  felt  that 
she  understood. 

"  Father  will  be  cut  up  at  the  idea,"  he  went  on, 
"  but  you  can  talk  him  into  it.  Let  him  see  there  is 
absolutely  no  question  of  my  joining  with  the  inten- 
tion of  firing  a  shot;  I  go  simply  to  help  with  the 
transport." 

"  You  will  have  to  fight  if  there  is  a  skirmish," 
Margery  said  in  those  low,  trembling  tones  that  went 
to  his  heart;  her  lips  were  white  and  stiff,  lines  of 
deep  pain  made  her  face  appear  set  and  haggard.  In 
a  few  brief  moments  of  time  she  had  changed  from 
a  proud,  self-reliant  woman  to  the  semblance  of  some 
poor,  shrinking,  suffering  creature  upon  whom  sen- 
tence of  irrevocable  doom  has  suddenly  been  pro- 
nounced. "  Going  means  fighting  —  make  up  your 
mind  to  that." 

"  No  man  can  compel  me  to  shoot." 

"How  could  you  avoid  It  —  mixed  up  in  some 
skirmish  —  seeing  your  comrades  shot  down^  "  she 
muttered,  with  dry  lips. 

"  I  shall  not  see  it,  old  girl ;  don't  Imagine  trouble. 
My  work  will  be  to  remain  at  the  base,  at  Louw's 
Krantz,  and  see  after  getting  supplies  sent  through. 
There'll  be  no  fighting  there." 


136  DIVIDED 

Margery  tottered  and  sat  down;  her  limbs  could 
no  longer  support  her,  shaken  as  was  her  whole 
frame  by  the  most  violent  emotions  of  terror  and 
alarm.    She  spoke  hoarsely,  passionately. 

"  George  I  George  I  don't  go  I  with  all  my  heart 
and  soul,  with  all  the  strength  left  in  me,  I  beg  and 
pray  of  you,  my  brother,  don't  join " 

Her  voice  broke  on  a  low,  sobbing  note,  and  she 
gazed  with  eyes  of  burning  entreaty  into  her  brother's 
face.  He  knew  not  how  to  bear  that  wild  gaze  of  ter- 
rible grief,  yet  he  would  not  turn  his  gentle  blue  eyes 
from  the  sight  lest  he  should  thereby  add  to  her 
fierce  agony. 

"  Don't  make  it  harder,  Margery;  help  me  to 
make  the  others  see  it  rightly." 

"  Help  you  to  your  death,  George ! "  she  said 
bitterly.  "  Isn't  that  a  cruel  thing  to  ask  of  me"? 
But  I  can't  do  that  —  no,  I  can't  —  often  as  I  have 
told  myself  there  was  nothing  in  life  you  might  ask 
of  me  that  I  would  not  do.  I  would  give  my  life  for 
you  —  any  day  —  willingly  —  you  know  it.  But 
to  help  you  to  ruin,  danger,  perhaps  death  itself  .  .  . 
Oh,  can't  you  see,  George,  how  bitter  a  thing  you 
are  asking  of  me*?  " 

It  was  terrible  to  hear  her  voice,  terrible  to  see  her 
grief;  the  wild  pain  that  shone  through  her  dark 
eyes,  the  settled  lines  of  despair  on  her  dark,  frown- 
ing browns  and  white,  anguished  face.  It  was  ter- 
rible to  the  young  man  to  think  of  her  still  on  the 
threshold  of  her  life's  prime,  in  the  vigour  of  woman- 


DIVIDED  137 

hood,  at  the  fairest  and  freshest  period  of  her  life; 
yet  bereft  of  hope,  bereft  of  illusions,  deprived  even 
of  such  measure  of  hope  and  consolation  as  had  been 
left  to  her  by  their  mutual  life  together.  He  rose 
and  came  to  her  side. 

"  Margery,  don't  fret,  dear;  think  hard,  old  girl; 
keep  saying  over  and  over  to  yourself,  '  There's  no 
danger,  not  the  slightest.'  Come,  come,  there's  my 
brave  sister —  if  it  were  any  other  chap  how  you 
would  scoff  and  laugh  at  the  bare  idea  of  making  a 
fuss  over  his  helping  with  the  transport  I  Old  van 
der  Merwe  has  given  his  word  of  honour  that  nothing 
more  will  be  required  of  me  than  to  help  in  this 
way." 

His  cheerful  tones  heartened  her;  with  an  effort 
she  pulled  herself  together.  Since  George  must  go, 
she  would  not  make  it  harder  for  him. 

"  I  don't  trust  him  —  no  more  than  that"  she 
said  emphatically,  indicating  with  snap  of  thumb 
and  finger  her  utter  distrust  of  the  predikant.  "  As 
to  honour,"  she  continued  in  a  dry  tone  when  she 
had  wiped  her  eyes  and  returned  to  the  kneading  of 
her  rusks,  "  as  to  honour,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do, 
that  there's  no  meaning  to  them  in  that  word  —  not 
to  a  wily  old  Boer  who  would  stick  at  nothing  in  his 
country's  cause  and  feel  persuaded  he  was  doing  the 
Lord  a  very  valuable  service.  Van  der  Merwe's  m 
for  this  business;  in  —  the  whole  hog  —  and  who 
can  blame  him*?  He  wants  to  keep  the  Irregulars 
from  bothering  around  here ;  so  do  we  all.    But  for 


138  DIVIDED 

this  very  reason  I  distrust  him  —  yes,  and  the  whole 
crowd  about  here  —  that  fellow  Bouwer,  and  all  the 
rest  of  the  gang.  It's  Thane  and  you  that  they  are 
bent  on  dragging  into  a  fight.  They've  got  this 
mad  scheme  on  for  driving  the  Irregulars  from  their 
camps  along  the  border;  and  that  they'll  never  do." 

"  They  won't  do  that,"  assented  George,  "  but 
they  may  keep  them  from  making  a  drive  across  the 
country.  Certain  it  is  that  if  the  burghers  do  not 
combine  and  keep  them  back  they  may  be  upon  us, 
here  —  any  day.  The  burghers  must  hold  them 
back.  The  Commandants  are  now  all  agreed  as  to 
that.  Beyers  is  pressing  them  to  the  north;  there  is 
a  rumour  just  in  that  he  has  ambushed  and  taken  pris- 
oners a  large  party  of  the  Fighting  Scouts  —  a  lot 
killed,  too,  so  they  say." 

"  It's  awful,"  Margery  said  with  a  faint  sigh.  "  I 
wish  the  Irregulars  were  either  here  —  this  minute  — 
or  else  beyond  the  back  of  nowhere." 

"  But  they're  lying  on  the  border,  creeping  grad- 
ually nearer  day  by  day,"  George  returned,  with  the 
gleam  of  a  smile  softening  his  face.  "  And  Thane 
and  I  are  likely  to  get  summoned  any  moment  now. 
This  offer  of  van  der  Merwe's  will  at  least  save  me 
from  being  marched  off  by  force  —  perhaps  to  some 
distant  part.  Better  for  me  to  join  van  der  Merwe's 
lot  as  he  offers." 

"  Better  still  to  go  off  with  Thane  to  Wyman's 
.  .  .  Oh,  why?" 

"  You  know,  dear  .  .  .  There  is  Aletta,  too." 


DIVIDED  139 

Margery  sighed  again  as  she  deftly  moulded  the 
lump  of  dough  into  long  rolls,  and  cut  each  roll  into 
equal  lengths.  Then,  laying  these  upon  the  baking- 
pans  that  stood  ready  greased,  she  passed  each  pan  in 
turn  to  George,  who,  with  the  ease  born  of  practice, 
slipped  them  one  by  one  into  the  hot  oven. 

"  It  would  break  up  our  lives  together,"  he  said 
Stooping  to  close  the  oven  door,  his  back  to  his  sister. 
"  If  I  went  with  Thane " 

The  note  of  sadness  in  his  voice  troubled  her. 
After  all,  what  was  he  asking  of  them  so  tenderly, 
with  such  gracious  humility"?  Merely  that  he  might 
assist  in  a  bloodless  way  in  helping  in  the  defence  of 
his  native  land  —  all  that  was  meant  by  the  words 
"  home  "  and  "  country  "  to  him.  The  Transvaal 
was  his  birthplace,  and  his  home,  and  his  country. 
Its  independence  was  as  dear  to  him  as  to  his  Dutch 
neighbours.  As  a  burgher,  he  could  not  sit  with 
folded  hands  and  watch  its  invasion  by  an  alien 
army.  .  . 

George  was  speaking  again,  and  she  raised  her 
head  to  listen. 

"  It's  not  that  alone,  you  must  remember,  Mar- 
gery. That  if  I  do  not  join  the  burgher  forces  Aletta 
swears  she  will  no  longer  be  wife  to  me  —  that  is  not 
the  reason  of  my  decision.  Always  remember  this, 
dear  —  for  that  I  did  it  to  please  her,  to  keep  her, 
will  always  be  levelled  at  me  wherever  the  world 
hears  my  story."  ("It's  human  nature,"  his  sister 
put  in.)  "  But  you  will  know,  Margery;  you  will 
never  misjudge  my  motives " 


140  DIVIDED 

"  I  know  you  too  well,"  his  sister  groaned.  "  I 
know  your  way  of  looking  at  things,  George,  and 
how  if  you  thought  it  right  to  take  a  certain  course, 
wild  horses  could  not  drag  you  from  the  path  you 
had  chosen.  It's  lofty  and  honourable  and  all  that, 
I  know,  and  we  are  all  proud  of  you  —  though  we 
can't  be  like  you,  because  you  have  always  been  an 
angel  of  goodness  compared  with  us  —  with  Thane 
and  me.  But,  oh,  George  "  —  she  turned  her  burn- 
ing eyes  on  his  —  "I  can't,  carCt  reconcile  myself  to 
your  joining  the  commando !  No,  I  can't  I  Think 
for  a  moment  of  us  —  all  of  us  here  —  who  lean  on 
you,  and  look  up  to  you,  and  are  dependent  on  you 
for  all  that  makes  our  dreary  lives  worth  living !  It 
would  kill  father  if  anything  went  wrong  with  you 
—  he  is  an  old  man,  and  —  well,  I  suppose  death 
comes  mercifully  to  the  old  who  suffer  a  bereave- 
ment—  but  there  is  Thane  —  your  joining  would 
bring  certain  disaster  upon  him  —  if  he  did  not  do 
some  mischief  to  the  Boers  they  would  do  some  mis- 
chief to  him  —  for  he  would  be  mad,  and  reckless, 

and  desperate  if Oh,  George,  think  of  us  —  of 

the  child  left  without  me "    Her  voice  fell  to  a 

sob.  "Haven't  I  gone  through  misery  enough  to 
turn  the  strongest  brain?  Could  I  live  and  keep  my 
reason  if  you  were  taken  from  me?  And  without  our 
care  what  is  to  become  of  my  poor  Babs?  " 

"  Hush,  Margery,"  implored  her  brother,  as  Babs* 
childish,  happy  young  laugh  rang  out  suddenly  from 
the  distant  garden.     "Don't  give  way  to  gloomy 


DIVIDED  141 

fears,  dear.  God  knows  "  —  his  voice  fell  to  a  low 
note  —  "  God  knows  I  would  rather  die  than  add  a 
sorrow  to  your  life.  But  think,  dear,  you  love  me 
too  well  not  to  have  me  do  my  duty  as  a  man;  you 
will  be  proud  when  it's  all  over  to  think  you  were 
brave  enough  to  have  said  to  me  '  go.'  When  the 
Transvaal  is  in  peril  it  is  not  for  her  burghers  to  turn 
their  backs  on  her.  Margery,  I  have  never  seen  you 
fail  in  courage  or  spirit.  Be  your  own  brave  self,  my 
sister,  while  I  am  away;  cheer  poor  father  up.  And 
Thane  —  look  well  after  him  —  never  fail  him, 
dear;  often  he  will  be  trying  and  hasty,  but  have 
patience  —  say  to  yourself:  *I  will  never  fail  him, 
for  George's  sake.'  " 

His  big,  sun-browned  fingers  stroked  her  hair  as 
she  leaned  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  her  frame 
shaken  by  low,  tearless  sobs. 

"  It  will  cost  you  your  life  —  I  see  the  end,"  she 
moaned. 

"  If  it  be  our  Heavenly  Father's  will  that  this 
war  means  death  to  me,"  George  said  quietly,  "  re- 
member, dear,  the  other  lives  —  the  other  mothers 
and  sisters  who  are  mourning  their  loved  ones  fallen 
in  Africa;  others,  too,  who  will  have  to  mourn  the 
loss  of  friends  whose  lives  will  be  sacrificed  before 
this  war  is  over.  Think  of  these,  dear,  and  so  take 
heart  to  meet  with  courage  the  tragedy  of  death, 
should  it  touch  your  own." 

"  Not  you,  George,"  she  shuddered. 

"  Why  should  I  any  more  than  another  escape*? " 


142  DIVIDED 

he  asked,  soberly.  "  Anyhow,  there  is  no  special 
danger  —  no  danger  at  all  —  in  what  I  am  under- 
taking; so  cheer  up,  Margery,  old  girl,  and  make  the 
others  see  I  am  but  doing  my  duty." 

"  Thane  doesn't  think  it  a  duty,"  she  said  faintly 
but  with  an  effort  at  return  to  composure  as  she 
dried  her  eyes  and  bestirred  herself  to  the  business  of 
removing  the  rusks  from  the  oven. 

"  He  looks  at  it  from  an  entirely  different  point 
of  view,"  remarked  her  brother,  following  her  across 
the  stone-paved  kitchen ;  "  he  is  right  in  acting  ac- 
cording to  his  conscience  —  I  only  wish  I  could  see  it 
as  he  does,"  he  added  half-regretfully,  "  but  I  can't." 

The  outer  door  burst  open,  and  Babs,  rosy  with 
the  kisses  of  the  frosty  night  air,  ran  into  the  room, 
followed  by  Rover  and  a  couple  of  shaggy-coated 
Irish  terriers.  In  the  distance  Woodward  lingered  on 
the  threshold,  looking  into  the  warm,  lighted  kitchen. 
From  the  oven  came  a  most  appetizing  odour  of 
freshly-baked  biscuits. 

Babs  flung  herself  upon  George,  who  had  resumed 
his  seat  on  the  edge  of  the  dresser,  clasping  his  knees 
caressingly. 

"  Oh,  we've  had  such  a  ripping  time  —  and  I  am 
so  hungry."  She  turned  to  Margery.  "  Give  me  a 
bun,  Sissie,  a  big  one  —  one  that  you  haven't  di- 
vided," for  Margery  was  again  breaking  the  buns 
into  sections  before  finally  drying  them  in  the  oven. 

"  Shut  the  door,  child,"  she  said,  impatiently,  "  or 
the  ovexi  will  cool." 


DIVIDED  143 

Babs  turned  her  head,  shook  her  curls  out  of  the 
way,  and  called  to  the  shadowy  figure  in  the  door- 
way: 

"  Come  in,  Captain  Woodward,  Margery  won't 
mind.  He's  given  me  such  a  ripping  time,"  she  ex- 
plained to  her  elders.  "  We've  been  stalking  hares, 
and  Sampson  "  —  she  patted  the  head  of  one  of  the 
terriers —  "  Sampson  nearly  caught  one;  he  chased 
him  right  down  to  the  river." 

"  Come  in  and  have  a  bun,"  George  said,  smiling 
across  at  Woodward.  "  I  hope  my  little  sister  hasn't 
bothered  you." 

"  It  was  a  great  pleasure  to  have  Miss  Babs*  com- 
pany," Woodward  returned  pleasantly.  They  all 
laughed  at  Babs'  indignant  face  and  at  her  tragic  ex- 
clamation:    '^  Bothered  him  I     Well.''* 


VI 


"  I  WISH  the  stupid  old  Generals  would  hurry 
themselves,"  Babs  remarked  in  tones  of  simulated  an- 
ger, breaking  in  upon  the  conversation  of  her  elders 
as,  some  moments  later,  they  were  all  gathered  about 
the  warm  chimney-corner  discussing  the  war. 

She  herself  was  comfortably  curled  on  the  floor 
beside  the  terriers,  her  head  resting  against  Mar- 
gery's knees  as  the  latter,  her  occupation  over, 
crouched  on  the  settle  drawn  up  before  the  fire. 

They  made  an  arresting  picture  from  which  Wood- 
ward found  it  difficult  to  turn  his  eyes.  The  woman 
with  her  shapely  arms  —  soft  and  floury,  bared  to 
the  elbow  —  looked  down  with  that  half-fierce, 
wholly-pathetic  look  so  unmistakably  associated  with 
maternal  solicitude  and  maternal  watchfulness  upon 
the  bright  mass  of  tangled  curls  shading  the  pure,  in- 
nocent brow  of  the  little  rosy-faced  speaker,  that  the 
man's  heart  involuntarily  went  out  to  her.  In  that 
instant  he  realized  with  a  sense  of  dismay  that  it  had 
passed  from  him  beyond  recall;  felt  that  he  would 
give  his  life  to  shield  her  from  pain  and  sorrow.  The 
next  moment : 

"  This  is  madness !  "  he  told  himself.  "  What  do 
144 


DIVIDED  145 

I  know  of  this  woman*?"  Yet,  despite  his  annoy- 
ance, he  found  himself  studying  every  line  and  fea- 
ture of  that  strange  masked  face  with  the  curled  lips, 
lined  with  life's  bitter  experiences,  white  now  with 
the  recent  emotion  and  anguish  through  which  its 
owner  had  just  passed. 

Then  he  found  George  Brandon's  gentle  blue  eyes 
regarding  him  with  a  certain  intense  surprise,  dismay, 
interrogation,  in  their  gaze  that  puzzled  him,  and 
his  annoyance  fanned  itself  to  a  white  heat  of  self- 
accusation,  of  fury  at  his  besotted  idiocy. 

"  Yes,  they  are  stupid,"  Babs  was  arguing  in  tones 
of  childish  vehemence.  "  Why  can't  they  hurry  up 
and  make  peace*?  The  Boers  want  peace;  they  jolly 
well  wish  the  war  was  over;  yes,  they  do,  Margery. 
How  do  I  know,  Captain  Woodward*?  I  know,  be- 
cause Tante  Jacoba  says  so,  and  she  knows;  she  is  a 
wise  woman.  You  see,  it's  because  Oom  Jan,  her 
husband,  is  a  wise  man,  and  he  tells  her  everything. 
She  says  when  I  am  a  grown-up  maiden  about  to 
opzit^  she  will  let  me  into  a  secret  —  a  very  great 
secret.'* 

Babs  hugged  herself  with  joy  and  looked  expect- 
antly to  the  others. 

"  What  secret,  Babsie*? "  George  asked  good- 
naturedly,  humouring  her  whim. 

"  The  secret  of  how  to  make  your  husband  tell  you 
everything  —  every  single,  little  thing,"  cried  the 
child  triumphantly.  "  So  then  I'll  be  a  wise  woman 
too,"  she  added,  with  a  note  of  supreme  content  in 
her  fresh  young  tones. 


146  DIVIDED 

"  So  the  wise  Xante  thinks  the  Boers  are  sick  of 
the  war?  "  Woodward  asked,  when  the  laughter  over 
Babs'  secret  had  subsided. 

"  Of  course,"  Babs  returned,  importantly.  "  She 
says  they  would  have  given  in  long  ago,  but  for  a 
few  verdoemd  Free  Staters,  who  haven't  had  their 
fill  of  fighting,  the  beasts  I  " 

"They  are  fighting  for  their  country,  Babs;  you 
should  not  call  them  names,"  George  put  in  mildly. 

"Well,  it's  time  they  left  off,"  Babs  pouted; 
"  then  we  could  get  our  things  through.  Look  at 
my  old  shoes,  broert]e^''  she  stretched  out  a  foot  clad 
in  a  well-worn  pair  of  veldtschoens.  "Aren't  you 
sorry  to  see  me  so  shabby  *?  " 

"  That's  no  very  terrible  hardship,  Babsie."  Mar- 
gery patted  the  shining  hair.  "Think  of  Captain 
Woodward  —  kept  a  prisoner." 

"  Who  may  get  marched  out  and  shot  some  fine 
morning,"  the  Captain  added  unconcernedly. 

Babs  started  up  in  horror. 

"  Oh,  no !  no !  You  are  just  trying  to  frighten  me  I 
Isn't  he,  broertje?  " 

"  He's  quite  safe,  don't  you  worry,  girlie," 
George  said,  soothingly,  wondering  how  the  poor 
child  would  bear  the  news  of  his  departure.  He 
looked  across  at  Margery.  She  understood  his  silent 
request,  "  Break  it  gently  to  her,"  and  there  rushed 
over  her  a  sense  of  the  magnitude  of  the  task  which 
lay  before  her. 

"No  harm  will  come  to  Captain  Woodward  so 


DIVIDED  147 

long  as  he  doesn't  attempt  to  escape,"  she  told  Babs, 
as  she  raised  herself  from  her  stooping  position. 

Her  eyes  met  Woodward's  fully  for  the  first  time 
since  they  had  clasped  hands  on  the  back  verandah. 
The  look  in  their  keen,  grey  depths,  as  he  steadily 
regarded  her,  again  troubled  her,  causing  her  to  ex- 
perience that  vague,  intangible  thrill  of  dread,  the 
sense  as  of  some  strange  note  sounding  clear  and  deep 
above  the  ordinary  tune  of  life,  a  note  she  refused  to 
investigate  or  consider.  She  lowered  her  head  as  be- 
fore, gazing  direct  into  the  fiery  heart  of  the  burning 
logs. 

"  No,  not  unless  I  attempt  to  escape,"  Woodward 
repeated,  echoing  her  words.  "  And  you  won't  let 
me  do  that,  Sabs'?" 

"No,  indeed,"  exclaimed  the  little  girl.  "I'll 
hold  you  fast."  She  grasped  his  hand  between  her 
small,  plump  palms,  suiting  the  action  to  the  words. 
"  But  you'd  never  try  to  run  away?  "  she  questioned, 
uplifting  earnest,  jewel-bright  eyes  to  his.  "  You 
like  us  all  too  much  to  want  to  go  away,  don't  you*? 
Margery  and  I'll  take  you  for  such  nice  rides  and 
walks.  We'll  take  you  to  the  very  top  of  the  moun- 
tain, up  the  footpath  we  always  use  —  no  one  but  we 
Brandons  can  use  it,  it's  on  our  own  farms,  you  see 
—  and  you'll  just  be  astonished  when  you  look  round 
from  World's  View,"  Babs  added,  proudly.  "  You'll 
see  something." 

"  As  far  as  to  the  Australian  camp*?  "  Woodward 
asked,  smiling. 


148  DIVIDED 

"  Farther  —  much  farther,"  cried  Babs,  emphatic- 
ally. 

"  A  sheer  hundred  miles  —  away  to  the  horizon 
—  with  nothing  but  veldt,  sky  and  freedom,"  Mar- 
gery's low  voice  put  in  dreamily. 

"  Except  a  few  veldt  dorps  and  farms  scattered 
between;  you  forget  these,"  said  her  brother.  Turn- 
ing to  Woodward,  he  added:  "  Yes,  on  a  clear  day 
you  get  a  glimpse  of  several  camps  along  the  border; 
you  catch  a  gleam  of  white  and  know  that  is  canvas. 
Then  there's  Leyden,  Emigratie,  Fort  Edward,  and 
one  or  two  other  little  post-stations  and  dorps  here 
and  there." 

"  And  you  see  against  the  sky-line  the  blue  moun- 
tain-ranges, with  a  hundred  blue  and  purple  valleys 
in  between,"  Margery  explained  for  Woodward's 
better  information.  "  And  in  the  summer  and  au- 
tumn the  waving,  red-brown  grasses " 

"  —  and  the  bush,  and  the  kopjes,  and  the  thorn- 
trees  !  Oh,  there  are  ever  so  many  lovely  things  for 
you  to  see  from  World's  View,  Captain  Woodward," 
Babs  echoed  joyfully,  jumping  up  and  down  and 
squeezing  his  sun-browned  hand  warmly  between 
her  small,  moist  palms.  "  You  mustn't  think  of  run- 
ning away." 

"I  won't,  Babs;  I  promise  you  most  solemnly  I 
never,  never  will,"  Woodward  returned  in  tones 
which  carried  conviction  to  the  hearts  of  his  hearers. 

Footsteps  tramping  heavily  up  the  garden-path 
brought  Thane  by  the  back  entrance  into  the  house. 


DIVIDED  149 

He  came  striding  down  the  passage  and  stood  within 
the  door,  frowning  upon  the  little  group  gathered 
around  the  fire.  His  brow  was  dark  and  lowering, 
his  steel-grey  eyes  shot  fire.  Margery,  looking  round, 
read  in  his  face  his  knowledge  of  George's  intention 
of  joining  van  der  Merwe's  commando.  "  It  is  Jo 
—  the  little  fiend,"  she  thought,  despairingly;  "she 
has  been  blabbing  —  as  usual," 


VII 


Thane  looked  pointedly  at  Babs. 

*'  Send  the  kid  to  bed,  Margery,"  he  said,  shortly. 

"  I  won't  go,  Thane,"  Babs  remarked  promptly, 
answering  for  herself.  "  You've  got  something  nasty 
to  say;  I'd  rather  stay  and  hear  it." 

George  rose  from  his  seat.  He,  too,  recognized  the 
inevitable,  and  sought  to  avert  the  coming  storm. 

"We'll  go  to  your  room,  Thane." 

His  brother  flung  himself  against  the  tall  dresser. 

"  It  may  as  well  be  said  here,"  he  muttered 
hoarsely.  "  Is  it  true,  George  —  this  story  I've  been 
hearing  from  Jo*? " 

"What  is  that?"  asked  George,  patiently. 

As  the  two  brothers  —  powerfully-built  men  both 
—  stood  facing  each  other.  Woodward  was  struck 
afresh  by  a  sense  of  the  horrible  nature  of  the  con- 
flict devastating  their  native  land.  George  Bran- 
don's attitude  he  could  understand,  and  with  his  con- 
ception of  duty  he  felt  the  strongest  sympathy.  Born 
and  bred  in  the  Transvaal,  every  manly  and  patri- 
otic impulse  within  the  simple,  honest  nature  of  this 
young  Transvaaler  urged  upon  him  the  necessity  of 
taking  up  arms  in  the  defence  of  his  native  country. 
Yet,  the  tragedy  of  his  so  doing  lay  in  every  drop 

150 


DIVIDED  151 

of  blood  pulsing  through  the  powerful  frame  of  the 
squarely-built,  fair-haired  Saxon  with  the  gentle  blue 
eyes  of  his  northern  forbears,  and  the  sentiments  and 
sympathies  which  linked  him  to  those  of  his  own 
race  and  blood.  Ties  of  kinship  knit  his  soul  with 
steadfast  grip  to  the  personality  of  every  Briton  war- 
ring against  the  Transvaal;  while  at  the  same  time 
the  more  weighty  instincts  of  birth  and  lifelong  inti- 
mate associations  —  those  undying  influences  which 
shadow  and  surround  for  every  one  of  us  the  mys- 
teries of  prenatal  days  and  subconscious  existence 
—  had  moulded  him  in  thought,  and  spirit  and  being, 
a  Transvaaler.  The  Transvaal  was  his  country. 
Duty  spoke  in  no  uncertain  voice.  For  his  country 
in  her  peril  he  must  raise  a  helping  hand  or  be  less 
than  a  man  in  his  own  eyes. 

To  each  one  of  us  Nature  speaks  in  a  greater  or 
lesser  degree.  "  Blood  creeps  where  it  cannot  walk," 
says  the  Boer  proverb,  and  in  the  case  of  Thane 
Brandon,  proud  of  his  purely  British  descent,  to  lift 
a'  hand  against  his  kin  from  the  Mother  Country 
across  the  ocean  appeared  a  despicable  crime  —  a 
crime  beyond  redemption.  His  sympathies  chimed  in 
every  whit  as  strongly  as  did  his  brother's  with  the 
Northern  Transvaalers  in  their  courageous  attempt 
to  keep  the  invaders  of  their  country  at  bay;  he  was 
too  plucky  a  man  not  to  admire  pluck  and  grit  in 
others.  He  considered,  too,  that  the  Boers  in  thus 
fighting  were  but  defending  the  liberty  and  freedom 
of  their  Republic  as,  in  his  opinion,  they  had  every 


152  DIVIDED 

just  right  to  do.  But  for  himself  and  his  brother, 
of  British  extraction  as  they  were,  there  could  be  no 
joining  the  ranks  of  the  brave  burghers.  Neither 
could  they  raise  a  finger  against  these  fellow-country- 
men. Either  course  was  to  the  hot-tempered  young 
Transvaaler,  with  his  British  blood  and  descent  and 
his  independent  views  of  thought  and  conduct,  en- 
tirely and  utterly  impracticable  and  impossible.  To 
lift  a  hand  against  Britain  would  be  to  shame  him- 
self as  a  man  in  his  own  eyes,  so  Thane  reasoned, 
hotly;  and  as  he  stood  facing  the  brother  who  was 
to  bring,  as  he  considered,  this  shame  and  disgrace 
upon  their  stainless  name,  so  deeply  was  there 
stamped  upon  his  broad,  dark  brow  and  strong,  hand- 
some face  the  bitterness  and  resentment  his  forceful, 
passionate  nature  suffered  at  the  bare  thought  of  his 
brother's  intentions  in  the  matter  that  Woodward 
found  himself  dominated  by  as  strong  a  sense  of 
sympathy  with  his  attitude  upon  the  burning  ques- 
tion of  the  moment  as,  but  a  few  moments  previously, 
he  had  experienced  with  the  attitude  and  views  of 
the  elder  brother.  Both  were  in  their  rights ;  neither 
was  acting  unworthily;  neither,  he  felt,  would  draw 
back  from  the  path  chosen.  Woodward  gazed  fas- 
cinated, as  he  saw  before  him  the  tragedy  of  a 
wrecked  household,  a  divided  family,  a  broken  home ; 
as  he  visualized  the  inevitable  separation,  pain  and 
misery  to  be  entailed  upon  this  humble,  wayside  fam- 
ily—  bound  to  each  other  by  the  strong  chords  of 
deep,   true,   lifelong  affection  —  by   the  Monster 


DIVIDED  153 

whose  presence  unpityingly  threw  its  shadow  across 
these  far  backwaters  of  the  main  current  of  the 
stream  of  life. 

Thane's  voice  broke  on  the  silence  around: 

"  Ah  ...  I  can  hear  by  your  tone  ...  It  ds 
true,  then  I  You  have  promised  that  old  psalm-sing- 
ing Judas  to  join  his  commando  at  Louw's  Krantz?  " 

"  What's  that?  " 

The  inquiry  came  from  old  Brandon,  who,  at- 
tracted by  Thane 's  loud  toues,  had  been  roused  from 
his  nap  over  the  sitting-room  fire,  and  now  in  slip- 
pered feet  stood  in  the  doorway  leading  out  from  the 
passage.  "  Who's  going  to  join  a  d d  com- 
mando? "  he  demanded  of  his  younger  son. 

Thane,  with  a  fierce  gesture  of  his  thumb,  indi- 
cated his  brother. 

"  George!  "  "  George!  "  his  name  fell  from  the 
lips  of  father  and  sister  —  a  harsh  remonstrance 
from  the  former,  a  pathetic  cry  impossible  of  re- 
straint from  the  latter;  while,  at  the  same  moment, 
with  a  sharp  burst  of  terror,  Babs  rushed  forward, 
clutching  at  his  arm  and  exclaiming  indignantly: 

"  Oh !  no !  no !  Thane,  what  wicked  lies  you  are 
telling!"  Then  looking  up  into  the  young  man's 
saddened  face,  she  burst  forth  again :  "  It  isn't  true, 
broertje,  is  it*?  You  don't  mean  to  leave  us,  do  you? 
You  would  never  go  and  fight  just  for  the  sake  of 
helping  those  horrid  old  Boers,  who  vjill  keep  on 
fighting  and  killing  people  and  getting  killed  them- 
selves? Oh,  you'd  never  leave  us  for  that!  Say 
you  don't  mean  to  leave  us,  broertje?  " 


154  DIVIDED 

"  Hush,  Babsie  I  "  said  George,  and  in  his  pain  at 
the  distress  of  the  little  creature  he  loved  so  dearly 
the  young  man  stooped  and  lifted  her  up.  With 
arms  flung  round  his  neck  she  clung  to  him,  sobbing 
passionately. 

"  Be  quiet,  darling,"  Margery  said  gently,  patting 
the  small,  heaving  shoulders.  She  had  swept  across 
the  kitchen,  and  with  her  tall  frame  held  erect  now 
took  her  stand  beside  her  brother,  ready  to  dare  all 
in  his  defence. 

"  Let  us  speak  this  once  about  it,"  George  began, 
as  Babs'  sobs  presently  sank  to  an  occasional  deep 
shudder.  "And  you,  Captain  Woodward,  don't 
leave  us,"  he  added,  as  Woodward,  in  perplexity  as 
to  how  he  ought  to  act  in  this  purely  family  affair, 
was  silently  making  for  the  doorway. 

At  George's  words  he  returned  and  took  up  his 
former  position  before  the  fire,  inwardly  satisfied  to 
continue  a  spectator  of  the  tragic  drama  about  to 
be  enacted  in  the  kitchen  of  the  lonely  post-house. 

George  was  speaking  again,  and  to  him : 

"We  have  all  learned  to  look  upon  you  as  a 
friend,  and  I  should  like  any  man  of  British  extrac- 
tion —  like  ourselves  —  to  hear  what  I  have  to  -say 
about  this  business.  Ever  since  the  war  started  I 
have  foreseen  this  day  —  the  day  when  Thane  and 
I  should  have  to  choose  whether  to  fight  in  the  de- 
fence of  our  country  or  to  stand  aside.  Each  of  us, 
I  felt,  must  decide  for  himself  —  must  act  as  his 
individual  conscience  should  direct.    For  myself,  I 


DIVIDED  155 

have  long  felt  that,  though  the  common  instincts  of 
humanity  forbade  my  taking  arms  against  my  blood 
and  kin,  yet  as  a  burgher  of  the  Transvaal,  a  native- 
born  of  the  soil,  I  could  not  stand  by  while  our 
country  was  invaded,  the  liberty  of  our  Republic  im- 
perilled, and  our  very  homes  and  possessions  threat- 
ened by  an  armed  foe.  It  has  worried  me  all  through 
—  it  has  been  a  nightmare  to  me,  for  I  said,  '  I  must 
help  my  country  in  her  need ' ;  yet "  —  he  turned  to 
his  father  and  brother  —  "I  thought,  too,  of  you, 
father,  and  how  to  do  this,  yet  at  the  same  time  not 
to  hurt  and  disappoint  you  and  Thane,  bothered  me 
still  more.  I  now  see  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty  — 
no.  Thane,  there  is  no  disgrace  about  it.  Van  der 
Merwe  has  asked  my  help  with  getting  supplies  to 
the  Louw's  Krantz  Camp,  and  from  there  on  to  the 
various  outposts  where  the  men  will  meet.  He  gives 
his  word  that  I  shall  not  be  asked  to  leave  the  base 
camp,  nor,  under  any  circumstances,  to  lift  a  hand 
against  the  Irregulars.  Well,  van  der  Merwe's  a 
good  sort;  he  can  be  trusted.  On  consideration  I 
have  decided  to  help  in  this  way.  I  had  just  told 
Margery,"  he  added,  "  and  she  had  promised  to  let 
you  know  —  for  I  knew  how  much  you  would  dis- 
like the  idea." 

"  Dislike !  "  said  old  Brandon,  gazing  in  astonish- 
ment at  his  son.  "  Nay,  that's  not  the  word  for  it, 
my  boy.  Trouble's  the  word  for  it;  lifelong  sor- 
row's the  word  for  it ;  and  it'll  be  the  setting  of  the 
sun  of  my  life  if  you  go,  George,  for  mischief  'ull 


156  DIVIDED 

befall  you  in  the  way,  mark  my  words;  make  no  mis- 
take about  it,  my  boy,  if  you  go  trusting  the  Boer 
predikant  you'll  rue  it.  '  His  word,'  say  you!  Man 
alive  I  he'll  wriggle  out  of  that  easily  enough,  when 
once  he  has  got  you  safe  in  his  toils  at  the  burgher 
camp !  .  .  . " 

"  I'd  sooner  trust  a  tiger,"  Thane  growled. 

"  George,"  asked  his  sister,  anxiously,  "  can  you 
be  sure  he  won't  drag  you  into  this  fight  with  the 
Irregulars^  " 

"  As  sure  as  a  man  can  be  of  anything  in  life," 
George  answered  reassuringly,  "  if  only  for  Aletta's 
sake  he  will  keep  his  word." 

Thane  sneered. 

"Why,  confound  it  all  I  Don't  you  know  she 
would  do  her  utmost  to  get  you  pot-shooting  at  the 
men  of  your  own  blood  and  nationality*?  " 

"  Don't  say  that,  old  chap,"  his  brother  returned, 
flushing  under  the  sneer  and  implied  slur  on  the 
absent  Aletta;  "  don't  think  it." 

"Think  it,  man?  I  know  it!  Isn't  she  crazy 
over  the  idea  of  adding  an  Englishman  to  the  Boer 
strength?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  she  wants  to  get  rid  of  me?  "  his 
brother  demanded,  a  flicker  of  pain  shadowing  his 
clear  blue  eyes. 

"  I  mean  that  country  and  people  count  first  with 
her  now.  Isn't  it  these  confounded  Boer  women 
who  are  keeping  the  men  up  to  the  scratch?  The 
women  are  death  on  holding  out  to  the  end.    It's  a 


DIVIDED  157 

madness,  a  fanaticism  that's  come  over  them,  blind- 
ing their  eyes  to  everything  else.  They'd  sacrifice 
their  husbands,  their  children,  their  own  lives  — 
whatever  the  cause  demanded  —  to  this  end.  Alet- 
ta's  a  strong-natured  woman.  She's  badly  bitten; 
you  must  look  upon  her  mad  wish  that  you  should 
join  the  burghers  as  a  craze  —  a  disease  —  don't 
let  it  influence  you " 

"It's  not  Aletta,"  George  interrupted,  firmly; 
"  you  should  know  me  better  than  to  think  that.  I 
go  to  help  our  country  simply  because  it  seems  to 
me  that  as  a  burgher  I  must  join  in  her  defence  in 
some  way;  and  as  I  now  see  a  way  to  do  so  without 
being  called  upon  to  fight  the  British  forces,  I  feel 
it  my  duty  not  to  let  slip  the  opportunity.  Try  and 
look  at  it  from  my  point  of  view." 

"  Not  if  I  tried  for  ever !  not  if  I  tried  for  a  life- 
time could  I  understand  your  doing  what  seems  to 
me  a  downright  disgraceful  thing  for  any  English- 
man to  do  I  "  Thane  retorted  with  fierce  vehemence. 
"  I'd  never  have  thought  it  of  you,  George  I  Never ! 
If  any  fellow  had  ever  hinted  to  me  that  you'd 
shame  us  and  shame  the  name  of  Brandon  by  fight- 
ing the  English,  why  I'd  have  knocked  it  down  his 
throat  for  a  damned  lie  —  so  I  would.  It's  not  like 
you,  George,  to  play  so  low  a  game  I  "  he  added, 
bitterly. 

"  But  it's  like  him.  Thane,  to  do  what  he  thinks 
right  —  to  do  his  duty  at  any  cost." 
,    Woodward  started  and  stared  as  the  words  fell  in 


158  DIVIDED 

clear,  distinct  notes  from  the  full,  bell-toned  voice. 
It  was  Margery  speaking.  She  still  stood  by  her 
brother's  side;  no  longer  the  listless,  enigmatic 
woman  she  was  wont  to  appear,  but  a  being  endowed 
with  vitality,  force,  power.  Her  tall  figure,  drawn 
to  full  height,  appeared  to  dominate  the  situation; 
her  face,  alive  with  love,  worship,  devotion,  rever- 
ence, she  fixed  her  gleaming,  deep-set  eyes  on  the 
younger  brother  as  she  continued: 

"  Could  you  do  it"?  —  even  if  you  felt  you  ought 
as  a  burgher  to  defend  the  Transvaal,  could  you  — 
or  any  English  colonist  here  "  —  she  waved  a  hand 
disdainfully  towards  Woodward  —  "could  you  have 
the  courage  to  do  what  George  is  doing*?  No  —  you 
know  you  could  not  I  Is  there  another  English  South 
African,  born  in  the  Transvaal,  one  of  our  sworn 
burghers,  who  is  risking  what  George  is  risking  — 
the  being  called  a  renegade  and  a  traitor  by  a  world 
that  can't  comprehend  a  disinterested  motive,  that 
consistently  misinterprets  the  noblest  actions  —  to 
help  his  country?  You  know  there  is  not.  There's 
not  one  man  in  a  thousand  —  in  ten  thousand  —  who 
would  have  the  moral  pluck  to  do  his  duty  in  spite 
of  being  misunderstood,  of  being  branded  as  a  rebel 
and  an  outcast  —  yes,  George,  I  will  speak.  Thane 
knows  very  well  in  his  heart  of  hearts  that  he  may 
well  be  thankful  to  own  such  a  man  for  his  brother ! 
Father,  you  ought  to  be  proud  you  have  such  a  son 
as  George !  If  you  don't  stand  by  him  now  —  the 
pair  of  you  —  you  aren't  worthy  of  him." 


DIVIDED  159 

As  the  full,  musical  ring  of  the  deep,  passion-laden 
voice  rose  and  fell,  re-echoed  from  the  bare,  high- 
arched  roof,  her  eyes,  brilliant  and  searching,  swept 
round  the  fire-lit  kitchen;  and  Woodward  —  lean- 
ing forward  anxiously  in  order  to  catch  her  every 
word  —  thrilled  with  a  deep  inward  exultation  as  he 
again  saw  in  their  gleaming  depths  the  soul  of  the 
woman  —  magnetic,  majestic,  human  I  Then  he  had 
not  been  mistaken  in  that  dawn  of  the  new  day"?  It 
had  been  no  fancy  on  his  part  —  that  vision  of  eyes 
alluring  and  passionate,  of  a  face  stamped  with  the 
touch  of  youth,  and  vigour  and  inward  fire^  For 
here,  again,  Margery  Brandon  stood  before  him,  her 
face  bare  of  the  mask  of  indifference,  listlessness,  dis- 
dain, with  which  she  was  wont  to  clothe  it,  as,  un- 
conscious of  all  else,  she  stood,  intent  only  upon  de- 
fending the  being  dearest  to  her  heart. 

He  looked  upon  the  real  woman  now  and  rejoiced. 
He  had  penetrated  at  last  her  reserve;  the  coldness 
of  her  manner  had  disappeared  beneath  the  warmth 
of  her  words.  He  understood  something  of  the 
depth  and  intensity  of  her  nature  and  felt  half  en- 
vious of  the  love,  divine  and  heroic,  that  dominated 
her  being;  leaving,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  her  strong, 
passionate  heart  empty  of  all  things  else.  He  turned 
his  eyes  on  the  figure  of  the  man  by  her  side  —  One 
to  be  pitied*?  No !  To  have  called  forth  such  a  love 
from  such  a  woman  showed  George  Brandon  as 
favoured  among  mortals. 

"  Damme ! "   said  the  old  man,   answering  her 


i6o  DIVIDED 

words.  "  Margery  girl,  we  know  George's  worth 
without  being  told  it  by  you.  But,  George,  my  boy, 
dorCt  do  it.  I  say  the  game's  not  worth  the  candle; 
don't  you  be  led  away  by  all  this  talk  of  duty,  and 
duty  ...  It  may  all  sound  very  fine,  but  it  won't 
work  —  it  won't  work  .  .  .  You're  an  English 
South  African,  but  a  Transvaaler,  and  it's  your 
duty  to  sit  tight  till  this  rumpus  between  John  Bull 
and  Paul  Kruger  is  done  and  over.  Thane  is  off 
to-morrow  —  you  slip  away  with  him." 

"  Yes,  George,"  echoed  both  brother  and  sister 
imploringly;  and  "Yes,  George.  Oh,  do  —  do  go 
with  Thane !  "  sighed  Babs,  creeping  closer  within 
his  arms;  while  Woodward,  coming  forward,  added 
his  voice  to  the  general  entreaty. 

"  I  can't  say  how  I  sympathize  with  you  both,"  he 
added,  frankly.  "  It  is  one  of  those  countless  cases 
in  which  each  man  must  be  fully  persuaded  in  his 
own  mind." 

Then  he  left  them,  feeling  his  presence  could  no 
longer  be  desired  in  the  final  moments  of  the  tragedy. 

Hardly  had  the  door  closed  upon  his  retreating 
footsteps  than  a  feeling  of  desolation  took  posses- 
sion of  those  left  behind.  Never,  since  the  little  fam- 
ily had  gathered,  in  an  anguished,  never-to-be-for- 
gotten hour  around  the  death-bed  of  the  devoted  wife 
and  mother,  had  they  been  called  upon  to  drink  of  so 
bitter  a  cup.  To  the  elders  it  meant  the  hour  of  a 
fresh,  disastrous,  irrevocable  break  in  their  family 
life  which,  end  as  it  might,  time  itself  could  not 


DIVIDED  161 

mend,  a  sorrow  life  could  not  heal.  George  Brandon 
wavered  and  asked  himself  if,  in  the  face  of  the  bit- 
terness his  purpose  was  creating  between  himself  and 
his  loved  ones,  it  would  be  possible  to  carry  out  that 
purpose.  His  face  was  pale  and  strained  with  the 
force  of  violent,  overpowering  emotion.  Silently 
he  held  Babs  in  his  arms,  while  his  sister  pressed  to 
his  side,  her  head  on  his  breast.  No  sound  but  the 
faint,  distressed  sobs  of  the  woman  and  child  sounded 
in  his  ears.  His  father  with  bent  head  —  a  shriv- 
elled, aged  figure  —  stood  ruefully  pulling  his 
grizzled  beard,  but  his  eyes  were  moist  and  his  heart 
heavy.  Only  Thane  remained  erect,  defiant,  with 
fierce  dry  eyes  and  lowering  brows.  Over  the  head 
of  his  weeping  sister  George  threw  a  gaze  of  in- 
tensity towards  him  through  the  mist  which  veiled 
his  own  sight. 

It  was  his  farewell  to  his  own,  to  those  dearest 
and  closest  to  his  affections.  Never  again  —  though 
life  was  spared  to  him  and  though  he  emerged  safely 
from  the  perils  which  beset  the  path  on  which  he  was 
bent  —  could  he  be  as  he  had  been  to  these,  his  own 
people,  before  the  cruel  blight  of  merciless  war  had 
caused  heartburnings  and  divisions  between  them  — 
separating  brother  from  brother,  father  from  son,  and 
causing  his  foes  to  be  "  they  of  his  own  household." 
"  Thane,  old  boy,"  he  said  brokenly,  stretching  out 
his  hand. 

But,  Thane  —  beside  himself  with  the  inwardly- 
raging  madness  caused  by  his  fury  against  the  man 


i62  DIVIDED 

he  loved  best  and  most  tenderly  —  turned  on  his 
heels  and  moved  heavily  through  the  outer  door  into 
the  night.  As  he  flung  himself  out  of  sight  and 
sound  of  The  Outspan  he  cursed  himself,  cursed  the 
war,  cursed  life  —  and  suffered  as  the  strong-natured 
alone  are  capable  of  suffering. 


VIII 

After  a  fruitless  search  for  the  absent  Thane,  con- 
scious of  the  magnitude  of  the  shock  under  which  he 
was  suffering,  George  wended  his  homeward  way, 
despondent  and  heavy-hearted.  Of  all  those  whom 
he  held  dear,  of  all  who  held  him  dear,  there  was, 
he  felt,  no  one  whom  his  decision  would  affect  more 
intimately,  nor  act  upon  more  adversely,  than 
Thane.  From  boyhood  upward  he  had  swayed  his 
younger  brother  by  the  power  of  a  tranquil  but 
deep-rooted  affection.  These  two  had  been  friends 
as  well  as  brothers  of  a  lifetime.  Thane,  hot-tem- 
pered and  obstinate,  refusing  to  be  guided  by  parents 
or  preceptors,  had  been  amenable  to  one  influence 
only  —  the  influence  of  his  elder  brother.  Like 
most  unruly  natures,  where  he  gave  affection  he  gave 
it  whole-heartedly.  With  a  passionate  unreason, 
tragic  in  its  depth  and  intensity.  Thane  had  chosen 
from  the  days  of  his  earliest  infancy  to  set  George 
on  a  pedestal  apart,  above  all  others,  there  to  do  him 
homage  and  worship.  As  he  grew  older  he  would 
permit  himself  an  occasional  smile  at  his  elder 
brother's  ideals  and  sentiments  —  high-flown  though 
he  considered  them  —  but  woe  to  the  unlucky  mem- 
ber of  the  Brandon  menage  whom  he  might  happen 

163 


i64  DIVIDED 

to  detect  doing  likewise  I  George,  as  he  trudged  up 
the  hill  through  the  frosty  air  of  the  night,  recalled 
with  mixed  feelings  of  pain  and  pleasure  one  of  these 
occasions  when,  for  some  such  trivial  transgression, 
the  peace  of  The  Outspan  was  rudely  disturbed  for 
several  days  during  which  the  stubborn  youth  fought 
fiercely  for  the  due  meed  of  respect  and  honour  which 
he  considered  should  be  accorded  to  his  brother. 

It  was  this  influence  and  example,  the  ideal  held 
ever  before  him  by  the  brother  whom  he  secretly 
adored,  that  had  grown  with  Thane's  growth  through 
those  long  years  of  childhood  and  adolescence,  finally 
softening  and  strengthening  his  manhood.  Not  for 
worlds  would  he  have  confessed  to  the  feeling,  but 
it  was  this  wish  to  stand  well  in  George's  eyes,  to 
earn  the  good  opinion  of  his  brother,  that  had  kept 
him  morally  on  the  right  path.  Was  the  low  stand- 
ard of  morality  of  many  among  his  associates  forced 
upon  his  attention,  with  a  rough  oath  he  would  brush 
aside  tendencies  to  share  in  their  sentiments  or  ac- 
tions; such  would  debar  him  from  the  pleasure  he 
experienced  in  meeting  George's  gentle  but  searching 
blue  eyes,  knowing  in  his  heart  of  hearts  that  thus 
to  meet  them  he  had  overcome  some  temptation,  had 
successfully  combated  some  evil. 

To  George's  welfare  and  good  repute  he  was  even 
more  sensitive  than  to  his  own.  It  was  a  secret 
source  of  satisfaction  to  Thane  to  reflect  that  so 
faulty  and  rough  a  chap  as  himself  should  own  a 
brother  embued  with  so  high  a  conception  of  duty. 


DIVIDED  165 

so  noble  an  ideal  of  conduct,  one  cast  in  so  gentle 
and  chivalrous  a  mould  as  had  fallen  to  the  inherit- 
ance of  his  brother.  And  now  the  bare  thought  that 
this  idealized  and  idolized  brother  should  be  the  one 
to  bring  a  slur  on  their  name;  that  words  of  con- 
tempt, insult,  execration  and  condemnation  could, 
and  would,  be  hurled  at  the  heir  of  the  Brandons 
without  possibility  of  contradiction  or  repudiation, 
was  to  Thane  as  some  deadly  heart-wound,  was,  in 
short,  a  far  more  bitter  and  humiliating  reality  than 
the  fact  itself  —  hideous  though  that  fact  appeared 
to  him  —  that  his  brother  had  joined  the  enemy 
warring  against  England  and  her  sons. 

"  Poor  old  Thane  I  Dear  old  boy !  "  thought 
George,  with  a  revival  of  tenderness  upspringing  in 
his  heart  at  the  thought  of  this  wayward,  devoted 
brother;  the  staunch,  true  friend  of  a  lifetime. 
"  Never  before  has  he  had  so  much  as  a  hard  thought 
of  me,"  he  reflected  miserably,  as  he  passed  upward 
and  onward  through  the  dim  night.  From  the  dark, 
velvety  pall  of  the  wide-spreading,  cloudless  heavens 
the  stars  shone  brilliantly  luminous,  lighting  up  with 
a  soft  shadowy  dimness  the  spaces  of  an  open  coun- 
try stretching  around  into  vague  immensity  —  soli- 
tary, waste,  virgin ;  stubbornly  bare  for  the  most  part, 
yet  dear  to  the  hearts  of  the  sons  of  the  soil  bom  and 
reared  on  its  rugged  bosom.  Yes,  his  country  was 
very  close  to  his  heart,  very  dear  to  him,  but  his 
brother  came  dearer  and  closer  still;  and  conciliate 
and  reconcile  Thane  to  the  step  he  was  about  to  take 


i66  DIVIDED 

before  going  to  the  Boer  camp,  George  told  himself 
he  must  certainly  do.  So  imperative  did  this  step 
now  appear  to  him  that  he  resolved  to  write  a  few 
lines  of  appeal  and  affection  immediately  on  reach- 
ing his  home. 

Arrived  at  this  decision,  he  felt  more  cheerful,  and 
rounding  the  incline  faced  the  lights  of  the  Top 
Farm.  The  sleeping  dogs,  aroused  by  his  footsteps, 
awoke  and  rushed  threateningly  with  loud  barks  and 
deep  growls  towards  the  intruder,  but  recognizing 
the  form  of  the  master,  they  fawned  upon  him  with 
slavish  delight.  George  patted  the  heads  of  the 
most  persistent  among  his  canine  friends,  then 
entered  the  house. 

Aletta  sat  before  the  fire,  her  large,  capable  hands 
folded  idly,  no  work  or  book  within  reach. 

"  Still  up?  "  asked  George  as  he  bent  to  kiss  her 
fair,  heavy  brow.  "  Have  you  been  lonely,  little 
one?    Has  the  time  seemed  long?  " 

Aletta  had  drawn  him  down  and  pressed  her  lips 
to  his. 

"  No,  sweetheart "  —  he  noticed  the  return  to 
softness  in  her  voice  —  "  not  lonely,  for  Ma  is  here ; 
she  has  just  gone  to  bed."  She  pointed  to  the  closed 
door  of  the  spare-room  from  which  a  low,  deep, 
thunderous  sound  proceeded,  announcing  that  Tante 
Jacoba  slept.  "  But  all  the  same,  I  missed  my  hus- 
band .  .  .  how  should  it  be  otherwise?  " 

"  Yet  you  won't  be  satisfied  unless  I  ride  over  to 
Louw's  Krantz?  "  George  asked  carelessly,  as  he  sat 


DIVIDED  167 

down  at  a  side  table  which  held  his  desk  and  writ- 
ing materials. 

"  Almachtig!  George,"  the  woman  cried  sharply, 
and  now  there  was  a  touch  of  fierceness  in  her  tone. 
"  Would  you  imply  that  I  want  you  to  go?  " 

"  Isn't  that  what  you  want?  "  he  questioned  with 
slow  precision,  as  he  started  to  write. 

She  glanced  wrathfuUy  at  his  bent  head,  then 
exploded : 

"  I  want  you  to  do  what  a  man  should  do  —  a 
man  who  is  a  burgher  of  our  Republic  —  sworn  to 
her  service.  Since  you  can't  do  this  without  leaving 
me,  must  I  hold  you  back?  Does  a  woman  of  my 
mind  and  temper  submit  to  a  husband  who  won't 
fight  when  his  country  calls?  " 

Her  husband  made  no  reply.  She  calmed  down 
after  her  outburst. 

"George,  I  am  sorry;  forgive  me  —  but  it's  the 
blood  in  me.  Don't  stir  me  up.  ...  I  can't  help 
what  I  say  when  it's  this  verdoemd  war-business  un- 
der discussion."  She  rose  and  stood  before  him, 
penitent  over  her  unkind  words;  for  was  not  her 
man  going  forth  to  the  fray,  and  should  he  not,  there- 
fore, be  made  much  of,  be  humoured  —  Sultan-like 
—  and  caressed,  and  meekly  obeyed? 

But  George  showed  no  inclination  to  play  the  part 
of  tyrant  or  lover.  Instead,  he  roused  himself  only 
so  far  as  to  answer  gently : 

"  Don't  worry  over  what  can't  be  helped,  little 
woman ;  I'll  do  what  I  think  right,  and  you  must  be 
satisfied  with  that." 


i68  DIVIDED 

She  looked  down  on  his  absorption,  scarcely  satis- 
fied by  the  tenor  of  his  remark.  It  was  enigmatic 
and  puzzled  her.  That  he  would  keep  his  promise, 
however,  she  felt  assured,  therefore  contented  herself 
that  all  was  well  and  turned  to  the  fire. 

"  I've  kept  your  coffee  hot;  it  will  warm  you  up." 

She  watched  him  fold  and  address  the  sheet  of 
paper  on  which  he  had  been  writing.  Placing  this 
upon  his  old  pocket-book,  which  lay  on  the  desk,  he 
rose  and  crossed  to  the  door  leading  on  to  the  stoep. 

"  Where  are  you  going*?  "  she  questioned  in  sur, 
prise;  "supper  is  just  ready." 

"  I'll  be  back  in  a  second,"  he  answered  from  the 
doorway.     "  I  must  wake  Zimbene." 

"Whatever  for"?  —  at  this  time  of  night!"  she 
demanded. 

His  voice  came  wafted  back  from  the  stoep : 

"  To  take  a  note  down  home." 

Aletta  stared  at  the  empty  room.  "  A  note  to  The 
Outspan. "  The  words  instantly  aroused  her  half- 
formed  suspicions  as  to  some  plot  on  hand  to  hold 
George  back  from  his  word  —  a  plot  planned  by  the 
arch-traitor.  Thane  I  He  had  proved  a  duivel  to  poor 
Jo;  he  would  tear  George  from  his  wife,  from  his 
duty,  and  hurry  him  off  into  hiding!  Of  Thane's 
intentions  she  had  formed  some  idea  through  per- 
sistent inquisitorial  cross-questioning  of  the  distracted 
Johanna,  and  thus  had  learned  something  of  his 
plan  to  carry  off  George  into  hiding. 

Should  this  thing  be  and  she  not  prevent  it*?    She 


DIVIDED  169 

could  prevent  it  did  she  know  from  what  quarter  the 
danger  threatened,  how  nearly  it  pressed;  George 
might  be  spirited  off  at  any  moment ! 

How  better  could  she  learn  their  plans  than  by 
opening  and  reading  the  note? 

It  lay  before  her  in  a  white,  inviting  innocence 
clearly  outlined  by  the  shabby  black  pocket-book. 
Aletta's  hand  went  out  towards  it  and  then  drew 
sharply  back.  Never  yet  had  she  stooped  to  the 
trick  of  learning  her  husband's  secrets  by  a  surrepti- 
tious opening  of  his  correspondence ;  but,  then,  as  she 
told  herself,  never  before  had  there  been  any  secrets, 
real  or  imagined,  in  his  correspondence.  For  this 
deed,  if  forced  upon  her,  the  war  was  certainly 
responsible.  , 

Aletta  went  so  far  as  to  pick  up  the  note  and  finger 
it.  She  eyed  it,  as  she  might  have  eyed  the  Evil  One 
himself,  with  hatred  and  fear  in  her  glance  and  with 
the  very  deepest  suspicion  as  to  its  nature.  Then 
hastily  she  laid  it  down  again.  The  responsibility  of 
so  momentous  a  deed  must  be  shared.  She  hurried 
into  the  spare-room. 

A  placid,  regular  succession  of  rolling  thunder- 
bursts  proceeded  from  the  bed,  where  —  deeply  sunk 
in  the  centre  of  a  thick  down-mattress,  and  covered 
by  a  handsome  silver-jackal  kaross  —  reposed  a 
huge,  billowy  mass  of  femininity. 

"  Ma,"  said  Aletta  eagerly,  gripping  her  mother's 
enormous  arm  and  shaking  it  steadily  and  firmly; 
then:    "  Ma,  Ma!  wake  up,  tochl " 


170  DIVIDED 

With  a  particularly-telling  snore  ending  in  a  ter- 
rific snort,  Xante  Jacoba  at  last  opened  her  little, 
faded  blue  eyes. 

"  Wake  up,  toch^  Ma,"  repeated  her  daughter,  im- 
patiently. "It's  something  important  I  want  to  ask 
you." 

"Not  the  place  on  fire?"  grunted  the  old  lady, 
sniffing  suspiciously  as  she  heaved  the  huge  dimen- 
sions of  her  ponderous  frame  from  out  the  deep  chan- 
nel in  the  feather-bed  with  wonderful  agility. 

"It's  no  fire,"  returned  Aletta,  hurriedly,  "but 
there's  a  thing  that  means  life  or  death  to  me  and 
George  —  and  how  to  find  it  out  I  don't  know." 

"  Heerl "  exclaimed  the  startled  old  vrouiv,  sit- 
ting up  in  bed  and  blinking  at  the  candle  in  the 
next  room.  "  Soh!  But  how  can  it  be  found  out? 
Can  I  help?" 

"  I  could  find  it  out  by  opening  a  note  George  has 
just  written  and  left  on  the  desk  in  there  "  —  she 
flung  a  hand  towards  the  sitting-room  —  "  while 
he  has  gone  to  the  huts  to  wake  the  boy  to  take  it 
down  to  The  Outspan.  It  has  to  do  with  some  plot 
of  that  duivel  Thane  ...  I  know  it  has." 

The  mother  stared  bewildered. 

"But  why  don't  you  read  it,  then?  Hurry  up, 
girl,  before  George  gets  back.  You'll  hear  him  com- 
ing along  half-way  up  the  road." 

"  Y-e-s,"  Aletta  returned  hesitatingly;  "but.  Ma, 
you  know  I  have  always  tried  to  live  as  high  as  my 
husband  —  to  do  nothing  mean  that  he  would  think 


DIVIDED  171 

low  and  unworthy  ...  so  I  don't  like  to  open  his 
note  .  .  .  because  it  wasn't  meant  for  me  to  see 
...  I  came  to  ask,  Ma,  if  you  thought  I  ought  to 
read  it  —  just  to  find  out  what  that  schelm  Thane  is 
up  to  and  so  prevent  him  from  getting  George  to  go 
off  with  him  —  hiding  somewhere." 

*'  Teh  I  tch!  tch!  Is  that  all?  "  snapped  the  old 
woman  as  she  tumbled  back  among  the  pillows. 
"  Aletta,  you  are  a  fool !  Waking  me  up  to  ask  a 
silly  thing  like  that  I  Haven't  I  and  your  Pa  taught 
you  your  Bible  that  you  must  needs  come  here  at  mid- 
night and  rouse  a  person  out  of  their  sleep  just  to 
know  whether  your  husband's  letters  aren't  the  same 
as  your  letters^  Does  not  the  dear  Lord  tell  us  in 
the  Book  that  man  and  wife  are  one ;  and  that  their 
farms  and  cattle  and  sheep  —  yes,  and  letters  too  — 
belong  equally  to  the  one  as  the  other*?  That,  in 
there,  is  just  as  much  your  letter  as  your  husband's; 
so  says  the  Book,  and  we  can  never  go  wrong  if  we 
keep  to  the  Book.  There  now,  go  away  do,  and  read 
the  letter  .  .  .  Only,  my  girl,"  she  called  after  her 
daughter  as  the  latter  hurried  back  into  the  next 
room,  "  but  it  would  be  just  as  well  that  you  don't 
let  your  husband  catch  you  reading  it;  these  Engelsch 
are  godless  kerels  and  don't  always  go  by  the  Book. 
'ioch!  toch!  to  think  I  should  be  waked  up  just  for 
a  simple  little  thing  like  that  .  .  .  and  me  with  my 
tjad  chest  .  .  , "  Her  voice  trailed  off  into  incoher- 
ence. 

But  Aletta,  heedless  of  the  wail,  having  mastered 


172  DIVIDED 

the  brief  contents  of  the  note,  folded  and  replaced  it 
on  the  pocket-book  as  with  a  faint,  contemptuous  curl 
of  her  full  red  lips  she  turned  to  her  occupation  over 
the  fire.  To  think,  she  told  herself  angrily,  all  this 
fuss  and  bother  should  have  arisen  through  that 
duivel  Thane  and  his  tantrums  —  and  George  as 
usual  wanting  to  smooth  him  down!  Why  could 
not  George  stand  up  to  him  and  give  him  a  piece 
of  his  mind*?  Why  should  he  always  strive  to  con- 
ciliate him'?  Before  this  war  had  come  to  throw 
a  bomb  in  their  midst  Aletta  and  Thane  had  always 
been  on  the  best  of  terms  —  good  friends.  But  the 
conflict  had  kindled  a  fire  of  resentment  between  the 
two,  and  Aletta's  newly-formed  suspicions  of  his 
treatment  of  her  sister  now  caused  her  to  hate  him 
with  the  bitterest  intensity,  while  Thane  on  his  part 
was  stirred  to  a  white  heat  of  fury  against  his  sister- 
in-law  for  her  insistence  on  the  part  her  husband 
should  take  in  the  hostilities.  Still  dwelling  upon 
certain  traits  in  her  husband's  character,  which,  in- 
deed, she  could  neither  understand  nor  appreciate, 
she  watched  George  somewhat  curiously  as  —  hav- 
ing dispatched  the  bearer  with  the  note  and  an  in- 
junction to  hurry  himself  so  as  to  hand  it  to  the 
Young  Master  (Thane's  boyish  appellation  to  which 
the  natives  still  clung)  before  he  went  to  bed  —  he 
at  last  sat  down  to  his  neglected  supper. 


IX 


Early  in  the  dawning  of  the  new  day  he  awoke  iin- 
refreshed  from  restless  slumber,  haunted  by  dreams 
of  dire  calamities,  and  leaving  his  bedroom  passed 
into  the  open  air.  The  night-breezes  had  sunk  into 
quiet  with  the  advent  of  sunrise,  and  beneath  a  pale 
grey  sky,  unflecked  by  cloud-bank  or  solitary  drift- 
ing cloudlet,  the  young  man  moved  aimlessly  through 
the  drenched  scrub,  past  the  dripping  thorn  bushes, 
a  lonely  figure,  his  eyes  unconsciously  uplifted  to 
the  towering  height  of  World's  View.  Some  echo, 
doubtless,  it  was,  striking  upon  a  chord  of  his  in- 
most being  and  recalling  the  days  of  boyhood  when 
a  mother's  earliest  teachings  had  stamped  upon  his 
memory  the  idea  of  association  between  the  moun- 
tain-tops with  the  gift  of  strength  and  help  granted 
in  time  of  need,  that  now  caused  him  involuntarily 
to  look  up  to  the  familiar  boulder-strewn  top  for 
help  in  his  present  trouble,  for  guidance  at  this  crisis 
in  his  experience  when  he  felt  himself  caught  and 
held  within  the  toils  of  a  divided  duty.  Simple, 
fearless,  true  —  his  creed  had  hitherto  been  the  direct 
and  quiet  performance  of  duty.  Unselfish,  large-na- 
tured,  gifted  with  the  graces  of  tenderness  and  kindly 

^7Z 


174  DIVIDED 

sympathy,  he  had  moved  along  the  common  road  of 
daily,  uneventful  existence  to  the  measured  impulses 
of  conscience  and  intelligence.  There  was  a  right 
way  and  a  wrong.  To  choose  the  right,  to  adhere 
to  it,  this  had  been  the  simple  ideal  he  had  held 
ever  in  view. 

Even  at  this  fateful  crisis  he  felt  there  must  be 
a  right  way  out  of  the  tangle  if  only  he  could  see  it. 
That  it  might  be  granted  to  him  to  see  it  was  his 
unuttered  prayer  as  his  blue  eyes  rested  upon  that 
mountain  height  —  solitary  yet  secure,  old  as  in  Cre- 
ation's dawn,  time-scarred  and  worn,  with  the  brand 
of  countless  summers  and  winters  stamped  indelibly 
upon  its  age-old  face,  yet  destined  by  the  will  of  its 
Creator  to  stand  for  countless  seons  to  come,  when 
he  and  his  generation,  and  countless  future  genera- 
tions, should  moulder  in  the  dust  beneath  its  over- 
shadowing height.  If  but  he  could  see  his  way  clear, 
if  but  it  would  be  granted  to  him  to  see  the  right, 
was  his  unspoken  petition. 

But  now  the  issues  were  tangled  and  confused. 
His  country  called  for  his  service,  and  he  felt  it  an 
irresistible  call.  He  judged  no  man  who  remained 
deaf  to  that  call,  sufficient  it  was  for  him  that  to  his 
ears  the  call  had  come,  carrying  conviction  to  his  soul. 
In  his  mind  there  was  no  thought  of  the  belligerents, 
of  Boer  or  Briton.  There  was  alone  the  need  and 
the  call.  She,  his  beloved  motherland,  his  country 
—  she  suffered  invasion,  she  called  for  the  help  of 
her  sons;  she  called  for  his  individual  help  and  he 


DIVIDED  175 

felt  himself  ardently  longing  to  serve  her  in  her  peril 
—  to  undergo  hardships  and  perils,  to  risk  life  and 
limb,  if  need  be,  for  the  sake  of  that  mother-land 
whose  forces  had  silently  enwrapped  and  surrounded 
him  as  he  was  borne  forward  into  being;  whose  skies 
and  winds  and  mountain-tops,  and  vast,  wide,  prim- 
itive wastes  had  moulded  and  influenced  him  even 
from  pre-natal  days.  Was  it  for  him  to  turn  a  deaf 
ear  to  this  call  of  his  Earth- world*?  Could  a  man 
ever  be  wrong  in  giving  his  life  for  his  country*?  The 
strict  obligations  of  patriotism  were  in  his  eyes  obvi- 
ous duties  incumbent  upon  every  man,  sacred  as  were 
the  old-world  truths  of  the  simple  religion  he  had 
accepted  as  a  boy  from  the  lips  of  his  mother. 

That  mother  —  a  saint  in  the  eyes  of  the  son 
who  worshipped  her  memory!  He  recalled  her 
oft-repeated  request,  his  oft-given  promise  in  those 
last  days  of  her  life  —  "  Help  your  sister  " ;  and 
again,  "  Always  stand  by  Margery,  my  boy  " ;  .  .  . 
Or  it  would  be  Thane,  "  Don't  let  him  get  into  bad 
ways  when  I  am  gone.'* 

What  counsel  would  she  give  him  at  this  crisis? 
Would  it  be  "  Thane  and  Margery*?  "  or  would  it 
be  "  Country  and  duty? "  She  it  was  who  had 
taught  him  the  ideal  of  duty  —  that  ideal  to  which 
he  now  looked  so  persistently,  clung  so  firmly.  He 
longed  for  her  voice,  her  counsel,  her  inspiration.  He 
prayed,  consciously  now,  that  she  might  be  permit- 
ted to  breathe  her  soul  into  his  —  to  enlighten  his 
darkness,  to  strengthen  his  soul. 

With  the  thought  of  strength  came  once  more 


176  DIVIDED 

the  association  with  the  mountain-tops.  Again,  this 
association  working  in  his  mind  gradually  cleared 
the  mists  of  the  past,  and  he  saw  himself  —  a  lump 
of  a  boy  with  a  thick  tangle  of  shining  hair  just 
touching  his  shoulders  —  pressing  against  the  side  of 
his  young  mother  as  she  sat  on  the  back  verandah,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  pages  of  an  open  book  that  rested 
on  her  skirts;  a  flat,  black  book  with  verses,  each 
verse  beginning  with  figures  and  capitals.  He  knew 
it  now.  It  was  a  little  book  of  Psalms.  His  mother 
had  given  it  to  him  at  the  last,  and  he  had  since  al- 
ways carried  it  in  an  inside  breast-pocket  of  his  coat. 
His  fingers  felt  for  the  pocket  and  he  touched 
something  hard  —  the  board  covers  of  the  little 
psalm-book.  He  drew  it  from  its  hiding-place  and 
gazed  upon  the  shabby  black  cloth  binding.  In  it  he 
saw  his  mother's  face  and  form,  heard  her  voice  and 

felt  her  presence. 

*  *  *  * 

She  was  beside  him  and  they  were  on  the  back 
stoep.  .  .  .  He  could  hear  Thane's  baby  voice  shout- 
ing to  Margery  and  Aletta,  and  to  little  Jo  as  they 
chased  each  other  about  the  garden  .  .  .  His  mother 
was  pointing  with  her  needle  to  the  words  in  the 
open  book  as  it  lay  on  the  big  kitchen-apron  she  al- 
ways wore  of  a  morning  ...  A  boy's  voice,  clear 
and  vigorous,  was  repeating  word  by  word,  with 
little  draws  and  breaks,  something  about  looking  up 
to  the  mountains  for  help  ...  the  boy,  he  knew  in 
some  mysterious  fashion,  had  thought  it  a  jolly  good 
idea  .  .  . 


DIVIDED  177 

Now  a  faint  smile  crossed  his  troubled  face,  for  in 
a  bound  he  had  solved  the  association  of  mountain- 
tops  and  help.  Mechanically  he  opened  the  little 
book  and  turned  the  well-thumbed  pages  until  he 
found  what  he  sought.  Here  were  the  words  linger- 
ing in  his  memory  from  those  far-off  happy  days  of 
his  boyhood.  As  his  eye  took  in  the  opening  sen- 
tences, the  familiar  words  of  the  short,  sweet  psalm 
came  back  with  a  rush  to  his  mind.  It  was  his 
mother's  musical,  bell-toned  voice  —  the  gift  she  had 
passed  on  to  her  daughter  —  that  was  again  repeat- 
ing slowly,  word  by  word,  for  his  guidance : 

"  I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills  from 
whence  cometh  my  help. 

"  My  help  cometh  from  the  Lord  which  made 
heaven  and  earth. 

"  He  will  not  suffer  thy  foot  to  be  moved;  He  that 
keepeth  thee  will  not  slumber^ 

*  *  * 

The  little  boy  was  looking  up  at  the  mother;  the 
mother  was  looking  down  on  the  little  boy.  Her 
needle  pointed  to  the  words  as,  one  by  one,  she 
repeated  them  slowly  and  distinctly  in  those  deep, 
clear  tones  sounding  still  in  his  ears.  He  could  see 
the  shape  of  the  earnest,  down-bent  face,  the  dark, 
straight  brows  shading  the  blue  eyes,  the  red  lips  — 
opening  and  closing  —  could  exactly  recall  the 
colour  of  the  spotted  print  dress,  almost  covered  by 
the  big  apron: 


178  DIVIDED 

"  'ihe  Lord  shall  preserve  thee  from  all  evil;  He 
shall  preserve  thy  soul. 

"  ^he  Lord  shall  preserve  thy  going  out  and  thy 

coming  in  from  this  time  forth  and  even  for  ever- 

more."' 

ifi  i^  Hf. 

The  little  boy  was  asking  questions  of  the  mother. 
"What  is  my  soul*?"  .  .  .  "What  sort  of  help 
does  the  mountain- top  give  a  fellow*?  "  .  .  .  "Will 
it  make  me  strong  to  fight  if  I  look  up  —  so?  "  .  .  . 
And  again,  making  strong  assertions :  "  God  could 
never  love  you  so  much  as  I  do,  Mums  —  no  one 
could  —  not  even  father."  Or  —  "  Of  course,  I'll 
always  have  you  to  ask  about  things  being  right  or 
wrong,  so  that  I  can  tell  Margery  and  Thane."  The 
mother  was  answering  the  little  boy's  questions: 
"Yes,  do  you  see  World's  View"?  Look  up  to  it 
when  you  are  in  trouble,  and  it  will  help  you  to  be 
strong."  "A  man  must  be  very  brave  and  strong 
—  afraid  of  nothing  but  of  doing  what  is  wrong." 
And  again,  "  I  shall  always  be  very  near  to  my  little 
boy  .  .  .  though  you  should  not  see  me,  and  should 
think,  perhaps,  that  I  am  far  away,  look  at  the  old 
mountain  there  and  then  you  will  be  leaning  against 
my  shoulder  —  as  near  to  me  as  you  are  now  "... 
"  If  you  look  up  to  the  mountain,  you  are  looking  up 
to  God,  and  He  will  help  you  to  bear  your  pain,  or 
trouble,  whatever  it  may  be." 

sfc  *  * 

His  mother  had  not  deceived  him.    He  had  been 


DIVIDED  179 

led  to  this  solitary  communion  with  nature,  he  had 
"  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  hills,"  and  a  vision  had  been 
granted  him  which  had  brought  to  him  not  only  re- 
newed strength  and  courage  but  that  most  precious 
help  and  comfort  of  spiritual  intercourse  with  the 
beloved  mother  who  had  passed  "  beyond  the  veil." 
His  mother's  words  had  been  amply  justified;  he 
had  looked  up  to  the  mountain-top,  and  the  Creator 
of  the  Universe  had  caught  that  upward  glance,  had 
felt  that  imspoken  appeal,  and  had  led  him  in  his 
hour  of  anguish  and  sore  unrest  to  comfort,  and 
strength  and  help. 

•I*  •!•  T*  T* 

From  the  deep  trance  into  which  he  had  sunk,  ob- 
livious of  his  surroundings,  he  roused  himself,  re- 
placed the  little  book  in  the  hidden  inside  coat 
pocket,  and  slowly  retraced  his  steps  to  the  farm- 
house. The  rays  of  the  newly-risen  sun  struck  him 
full  in  the  eyes.  His  little  world  was  awakening  to 
the  duties  of  the  early  morning.  In  the  cattle-kraal 
the  herdman,  who  had  collected  the  lowing  cows, 
was  calling  to  the  milkers  to  bring  down  the  pails, 
and  in  response  to  his  calls  the  boys  came  hurrying 
forth  from  the  kitchen  with  a  great  clanking  of 
buckets  and  tin  pannikins ;  while  the  little  chocolate- 
coloured  piccaninnies  crept  out  from  under  their 
karosses  in  the  huts  and  stood  for  a  moment  in  the 
doorways,  rubbing  their  beady  black  eyes  not  yet 
fully  unclosed,  before  wending  their  steps  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  calf -pen.    In  the  stable  George  found 


:i»o  DIVIDED 

Zimbene  busily  grooming  the  horses.  His  story  was 
narrated  with  fullest  details.  He  had  been  unable 
to  find  the  young  baas  on  the  previous  night;  the 
young  baas'  room  was  empty;  he  had  knocked  and 
knocked;  then  Miss  Margery  had  opened  her  win- 
dow, and  had  taken  the  note  and  told  him  —  Zim- 
bene —  to  go  home  to  his  bed,  for  she  would  see  that 
the  young  baas  got  the  letter  as  soon  as  he  came  in. 

Not  altogether  reassured  by  this  tale,  and  resolv- 
ing that  later  in  the  day  he  would  return  to  his  old 
home,  George  busied  himself  with  the  usual  occupa- 
tion of  the  hour  until,  the  morning's  work  well  over, 
he  entered  the  house  to  find  his  mother-in-law's  huge 
bulk  filling  up  one  side  of  the  breakfast-table. 

She  greeted  him  in  mournful  tones  but  with  a 
decidedly  cheerful  expression  on  her  large,  tallow- 
coloured  face. 

"Ach,  then,  haven't  you  heard,  my  son?  Has 
Aletta  not  yet  told  you  the  sad  news*?  Shame  then, 
Letty,  not  to  tell  your  man  everything  on  the  in- 
stant. Doesn't  the  Book  teach  you  that  man  and 
wife  are  one?  "  She  winked  at  the  frowning  Aletta; 
then  turned  again  to  George :  "  Oom  Jan,  my  poor 
old  man,  seventy  next  birthday,  if  you'll  believe  me, 
schoen-son  —  well,  he's  up  and  off,  gone  into  hiding 
where  that  schelm  Bouwer,  with  his  dirty  papers,  will 
never  get  at  him." 

"  Gone  into  hiding,  has  he? "  asked  George, 
calmly. 

"  You  must  remember  his  great  age  —  all  but 
seventy,"  Aletta  interposed  anxiously. 


DIVIDED  181 

"  Seventy,"  shrilled  Tante  Jacoba,  bolting  down 
her  food,  yet  determined  to  tell  her  tale,  "  three- 
score-and-ten,  which  the  Book  says  is  the  full  age 
of  man  as  a  rule;  but  because  the  dear  Lord  has 
spared  my  old  man  to  me  is  it  to  be  believed  that  I 
am  going  to  allow  him  to  be  marched  off  by  means  of 
a  dirty  piece  of  paper  and  sjamboked  up  to  the  very 
rifles  of  those  duivels  of  Bushmen  fighting  our 
burghers'?  No,  indeed  I  Why,  I  am  told  they  carry 
short,  sharp  knives  which  they  fix  on  to  the  point  of 
their  Martinis  when  they  are  going  into  a  fight  with 
our  men,  and  so  our  poor  kerels  get  run  through  — 
so !  —  stuck  like  a  pig  by  the  knife !  Ach  I  then  — 
so  — there  you  are  dangling  on  the  knife  at  the  one 
end  of  the  roer  and  the  duivel  of  a  Bushman  at  the 
other  end  —  so  I  "  and  the  old  woman  made  a  ter- 
rible thrust  with  her  breakfast-knife  at  an  inoffensive 
pat  of  butter  on  the  dish  before  her. 

George  smiled,  despite  his  distraction,  but  Aletta 
turned  white. 

"  Oh,  don't  make  fun  of  it,  schoen-son,"  implored 
his  mother-in-law.  "  No  doubt  but  I  am  nothing 
more  than  an  ignorant  old  Boer  woman,  you  will  be 
thinking,  but  let  me  tell  you  this,  I  am  looking  all 
right  after  my  old  man.  I've  had  the  expense  of 
burying  one  husband  already  —  a  young  kerel  who 
married  me  in  my  maiden  days  and  then  went  and 
got  his  neck  broken  at  some  foolish  horse-jumping 
business.  Ach!  but  that  was  bad,  and  me  not  six- 
teen I    ^ocJil  tochl    But  that's  past  and  over  many, 


i82  DIVIDED 

many  years  ago,  thank  the  Lord,  and  I  am  now  old 
and  slim  —  very  slim.  This  man  of  mine  I  am  not 
going  to  bury,  he's  got  to  bury  me;  and  not  much 
expense  either  with  the  coffin  all  ready  in  the  loft 
at  du  Bruyn's  Rust,  and  our  two  daughters  to  make 
the  funeral  cakes  and  see  to  things." 

Here  she  paused  and  gasped  for  breath,  while 
George  took  the  opportunity  of  asking  whether  Oom 
Jan  was  really  off. 

"  '  Jan,'  I  said  to  him  yesterday  morning,"  shrilled 
Tante  Jacoba  again,  with  a  mighty  gathering  up  of 
her  forces;  "  *  Jan,'  I  said,  '  off  with  you — now  — 
at  once  I '  So  he  saddled  up  the  old  schimmel^  and 
Jo  and  I  stuffed  his  saddle-bags  with  biltong  and 
cookies :  *  There,'  said  I,  '  off  with  you  into  the 
krantze,  and  hide  there  with  the  baboons  and  the 
wilde-kat,  for  I  don't  want  to  see  your  precious  old 
face  again  till  this  slecht  war  is  over  and  done  with.* 
And  so  he  went  off  with  his  roer  and  his  saddle-bags. 
Ach  I  Ach !  but  it's  a  bad  business,  this  war." 

"  But  won't  the  Boers  catch  him,  Tante  Jacoba?  " 
George  asked,  slyly. 

Tante  Jacoba  winked,  openly  this  time;  but  her 
voice  when  she  replied  was  charged  with  the  same 
ponderous  gravity. 

"  Not  they ;  they've  got  their  work  cut  out  —  van 
der  Merwe,  Bouwer,  and  the  rest  of  that  gang  — 
getting  ready  to  fight  the  rooineks" 

"  But  the  Bushmen?  —  they  are  not  far  off,  you 
know;  Oom  Jan  had  better  not  wander  too  far 
around  shooting  partridges." 


DIVIDED  183 

"  The  slechte! "  cried  Tante  Jacoba,  angrily. 
"  What  do  they  know  of  our  veldt*?  Du  Bruyn  can 
play  at  hide  and  seek  with  them  easily  enough." 

"And  you,  George,"  inquired  the  old  woman 
when  she  had  drained  her  last  drop  of  coffee,  wiping, 
as  she  spoke,  her  huge  mouth  with  the  back  of  her 
broad,  toil-worn  hand  and  pushing  from  her  the 
empty  plate,  cup  and  saucer.  "  Is  it  true  what  Aletta 
tells  me  —  that  you  join  the  predikant  at  Louw's 
Krantz?  " 

"  I  have  promised  to  ride  over  and  help  him  to 
get  things  into  order  there,"  George  replied,  shortly. 

Elbows  on  the  clear  space  of  table-cloth  before 
her,  Tante  Jacoba  sat  silent  for  a  moment  or  two, 
curiously  studying  her  son-in-law.  Then  she  heaved 
a  vast  sigh  and  said  solemnly : 

"  Ach,  then,  you  will  be  in  the  fight  —  for  there's 
a  fight,  and  a  sharp  fight,  coming  on.  Heer!  but 
that's  bad!  May  you  be  shielded  from  the  godless 
Bushmen's  bullets,  and  from  those  sharp,  straight 
knives  I    Ach !    Teh  I  tch !  tch !  " 

"Ma,"  said  her  daughter  sharply,  as  she  rose 
abruptly  from  the  table,  "  don't  talk  of  these  things. 
George  must  go  and  do  his  part  as  a  man  .  .  .  and 
I  have  the  harder  part  —  the  woman's  part  —  to  let 
him  goJ' 

She  pushed  aside  her  chair  and  left  the  room. 
Mrs.  du  Bruyn  winked  again  across  the  table  at  her 
son-in-law. 

"  George,"  she  said  in  a  brisk,  confidential  tone, 


i84  DIVIDED 

dropping  her  assumed  melancholy,  "just  listen  to 
old  Xante  Jacoba  who  has  known  you  ever  since  the 
hour  you  were  born.  Don't  pay  too  much  attention 
to  what  Aletta  says;  just  ride  over  and  see  the  Boer 
camp  —  then  come  back." 

George  smiled  above  the  match  he  held  in  his 
hand  ready  to  put  to  his  pipe. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  Aletta's  face  when  she  saw 
me  back,"  he  said,  lightly. 

"  Ach !  but  what  matter  her  face !  It  is  the  heart 
—  the  mind  —  not  the  face  that  will  smile  in  the 
woman ;  in  her  spirit  she  shall  lick  your  boots,  kerel. 
It's  when  you  come  back  you  will  see  her  pleased 
and  puffed  up.  My  word,  boy,  so  you  shall  if  —  as 
the  good  Lord  grant  —  no  mishap  befall  her." 

"  But  what  do  you  mean*? "  asked  George,  sud- 
denly aware  that  there  was  more  in  her  enigmatic 
assertions  than  he  had  at  first  supposed. 

"  But  only  what  every  mother  feels  —  that  the 
want  of  a  man-child  is  what  frets  a  woman  sorely. 
Don't  we  read  in  the  Book  that  it  fretted  Hannah'? 
Yes,  indeed  —  and  it  may  be  a  hoy  this  time"  Tante 
Jacoba  added  oracularly. 

George  stood  looking  searchingly  into  her  face. 
Aletta's  expectation  —  if  indeed  she  had  any  such  — 
was  news  to  him.    After  a  pause,  he  asked : 

"*Are  you  sure  of  this?  .  .  .  I  had  no  idea " 

"Sure?"  Tante  Jacoba  shrilled  as  she  sniffed 
violently;  then  snorted  and  coughed  and  wagged  her 
head  indignantly.    "Sure"?    Is  the  boy  crazed  that 


DIVIDED  185 

he  asks  such  a  question  of  his  wife's  own  mother? 
Sure  I  am,  my  son,  though  not  in  words  has  the 
girl  spoken ;  but  a  mother's  eyes  are  sharp.  I've  seen, 
too,  what  you  have  had  to  put  up  with  from  her 
vagaries  of  late;  but  pay  no  attention  to  her  fads, 
George,  pay  no  attention  to  her  humours.  For  why 
—  these  are  but  Nature's  signals  to  us;  and  you 
mark  my  words,  schoen-son^  the  girl  will  lick  your 
boots  with  joy  when  you  come  back,  having  spent  a 
few  hours  at  Mynheer  van  der  Merwe-and-Co.'s- 
Boer-Camp,  and  paid  your  best  respects  to  the  good 
pastor  —  so  keeping  faith  with  him  and  your  given 
word,  as  a  man  is  bound  to  do." 

But  George  only  smiled  and  nodded  kindly  at  the 
old  dame  as,  his  pipe  satisfactorily  lighted,  he  went 
off  to  his  work  at  the  lands;  and  the  morning  passed 
uneventfully  by. 


X 


Aletta  stood  in  the  poultry-yard  scattering  an 
apronful  of  grain  to  the  clucking,  cluttering  cocks 
and  hens  gathered  around  her  skirts,  busily  engaged 
in  scratching  at  and  picking  up  the  corn  and  maize 
thrown  about  the  grass-plot  of  the  run. 

All  around  the  precincts  of  the  peaceful,  out-of- 
the-way  farmhouse.  Nature  smiled  in  the  crisp,  cold 
air  of  the  winter  afternoon.  Johanna,  who  leaned 
listlessly  against  the  gate  leading  into  the  enclosure, 
stared  up  at  the  tall,  wide-spreading  cypress  stand- 
ing solitary  against  the  red-bricked  building.  Pig- 
eons were  cooing  among  its  dark,  wide  branches 
while  from  further  afield  she  could  catch  the  short, 
sharp,  joyous  bark  of  the  dogs  returning  with  their 
master  and  the  men  from  their  day's  labour  at  the 
ploughing  of  the  fields,  and  the  distant  lowing  of 
the  homing  cattle  bellowing  expectantly  for  their 
stalled  calves.  Pigs  grunted,  turkeys  gobbled,  the 
fowls  kept  up  a  continuous  clutter,  and  in  the  euca- 
lyptus and  syringa  trees  thousands  of  yellow  finches 
flew  from  branch  to  branch  and  twittered  and  sang 
of  their  loves  and  nesting  happiness. 

Something  of  that  spirit  of  content  and  jubilation 
i86 


DIVIDED  187 

in  all  dumb  creation  was  conveyed  so  clearly  by  these 
creatures  of  the  wild  to  the  lonely  soul  of  the  sorely- 
tried  girl  that,  as  her  dark  eyes  gazed  intently  at  the 
tree-trops,  black  discontent  and  bitter  impatience 
filled  her  heart  and  mind.  Wrapped  in  her  own  dark 
thoughts,  she  failed  to  hear  Aletta's  stream  of  talk 
wafted  across  the  poultry-run. 

"  Thinking  of  that  duivel,  I'll  be  bound,"  said  her 
sister  angrily,  coming  up  to  her.  "  I've  called  to  you 
half-a-dozen  times  to  push  the  gate  tighter;  there! 
that's  the  third  that's  crept  through!  .  .  .  shoo 
.  .  .  shoo  .  .  . 

"  I'd  be  'shamed  if  I  were  you,  Jo,  to  sit  with 
my  head  in  the  clouds  grieving  for  a  man  who  had 
treated  me  like  dirt,"  went  on  Aletta  scornfully, 
when  the  escaping  chickens  had  been  shepherded 
back  within  the  run ;  "  making  all  this  trouble  over 
a  godless  traitor  like  Thane  Brandon." 

"  He's  no  traitor,"  interrupted  Johanna  proudly, 
"  and  my  trouble  is  my  own,  so  you  need  not  put 
yourself  out  about  it." 

For  some  moments  Aletta  looked  hard  and 
thoughtfully  at  her  sister;  then  in  a  softer  manner 
she  said  as  she  turned  away : 

"  Don't  let  us  quarred  over  the  man,  Jo ;  how  you 
ever  came  to  love  so  ill-tempered  a  kerel  puzzles  me 
...  it  was  a  misfortune." 

"Love  comes  like  the  wind,  no  one  knows  how 
or  whence,"  the  younger  sister  repeated  dully,  her 
eyes  again  on  the  tree-tops.    How  they  rocked !  like 


i88  DIVIDED 

cradles,  in  which  lay  tucked  fluffy  little  nestlings, 
over  which  the  parent  birds  carolled  their  songs  of 
home  and  love  and  happiness. 

"  Girls  are  fools  who  let  men  make  up  to  them," 
counselled  Aletta  gravely. 

"  —  if  they  don't  seize  the  opportunity  to  tie 
them,"  added  Johanna. 

"  That  often  means  that  a  girl's  left  tied  only  to 
shame,"  her  sister  said  in  tones  of  warning. 

"The  child  binds  the  man,"  the  other  replied 
obstinately. 

"  Soh  —  well,  we  two  together  may  play  a  trick 
on  those  who  maybe  think  to  do  us  a  bad  turn. 
Mind,  though,  Jo,  no  secrets  from  me,  and  I'll  stand 
by  you,  come  what  may." 

She  turned,  and  went  back  to  the  flock  of  fowls, 
still  scratching  in  the  hope  of  more  grain  ere  being 
turned  in  to  the  roosting-sheds,  leaving  Johanna  to 
digest  her  somewhat  cryptic  utterance  and  offer  of 
assistance. 

Her  brother-in-law  came  up  to  the  gate,  and  nod- 
ding to  him  the  girl  walked  slowly  away. 

"I  am  going  down  home*?"  he  said,  addressing 
his  wife.    "  Will  you  come,  Aletta?  " 

She  shook  her  head  decidedly. 

"  I'm  no  welcome  sight  there  just  now,"  she  called 
back,  sending  her  full,  heavy  tones  across  the  inter- 
vening space  of  the  poultry-run,  "  and  the  talk  of 
the  men  in  the  bar  and  on  the  stoep  irritates  me  .  .  . 
Fools!    Can't  they  talk  less  and  fight  more?"  she 


DIVIDED  189 

added,  dropping  her  voice  to  a  contemptuous  query. 

"  You  are  always  welcome,"  her  husband  re- 
turned calmly;  "  but  please  yourself." 

"  And  you  would  leave  me  again  to  a  lonely  even- 
ing'? "  she  asked,  her  tones  rising  reproachfully. 

"  You  have  your  mother  and  Jo." 

"Ma  has  gone  home;  and  Jo —  what  company 
is  she,  eating  her  heart  out  for  a  man  who  has 
wronged  her.'* 

George  opened  the  gate  and  joined  her.  Half 
afraid  of  her  words,  she  made  a  great  pretence  of 
hustling  her  flock  to  their  appointed  roosting-sheds. 
Her  husband  stood  in  silence  until  the  last  straggler 
had  been  housed,  then  asked  quietly : 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  you  had  Bouwer  here 
last  evening*? " 

She  evaded  his  question. 

"How  did  you  hear  it?  —  through  Zimbene  — 
the  black  spy." 

"Zimbene  is  no  spy,"  he  said  coldly;  despite  his 
wish,  he  felt  that  his  tones  were  cold. 

"  Ach,  then,  it  is  surely  Jo?  She  has  been  bab- 
bling to  Thane  as  usual.  Thane  has  told  Margery, 
and  Margery  has  passed  it  on  to  you ;  I  saw  her  ride 
by  to  the  lands  to-day  —  she  didn't  turn  in  to  greet 
me." 

Her  instincts  had  divined  the  facts  of  the  case,  but 
George  neither  confirmed  nor  denied  her  statement. 

"  She  had  the  Captain  —  the  Boer  prisoner  —  es- 
corting her,"  Aletta  continued;  "  h^  s^enis  greatly  at- 


190  DIVIDED 

tracted  by  her;  I  have  noticed  that  before  when  they 
have  been  here  together;  I  suppose  they  will  make 
a  match  of  it." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  suppose  that." 

"  Don't  you*?  Well,  it  does  not  concern  me  so 
long  as  Margery  doesn't  interfere  between  Jo  and 
Thane." 

Her  husband  turned  from  her,  but  she  followed 
him.  A  grievance  of  long  standing  with  Aletta  was 
the  idee  fixe  she  harboured  that  her  husband  shared 
with  his  sister  some  secret  knowledge  hidden  from 
his  wife. 

"  George,  you  know  how  it  is  with  those  two,"  she 
said  imploringly.  "Jo  has  taken  him  as  her  man; 
surely  he  will  wed  her  before  the  pastor." 

"  As  to  that,  Thane  must  decide  for  himself,"  her 
husband's  tones  were  now  decidedly  chilly.  He  was 
displeased  at  her  vague  threat  against  Margery,  and 
wondered  uneasily  how  near  to  the  real  facts  were 
her  suspicions  of  the  dark  secret  in  his  sister's  life. 

"  George,  you  speak  coldly  —  cruelly.  She  is  my 
only  sister,  and  I  Icve  her  —  you  have  influence  over 
Thane." 

"I  have  none,"  returned  her  husband  emphatic- 
ally; "  not  since  my  decision  to  join  van  der  Merwe. 
...  If  I  am  detained  —  if  I  am  driven  into  a  fight " 
—  his  honest  blue  eyes  searched  her  face.  "  What 
was  Bouwer  wanting  here,  Aletta?  "  he  asked  again. 

"  Only  to  see  the  old  people,"  she  exclaimed  has- 
tily, horrified  as  Jo's  position  became  clear  to  her.    If 


DIVIDED  191 

her  husband  had  lost  all  influence  over  his  brother 
—  if  Thane's  hatred  towards  the  Boers,  because  of 
the  part  she  flattered  herself  she  had  persuaded  his 
brother  to  take  in  the  conflict,  remained  implacable, 
what  was  left  to  her  sister  but  desertion  and  loss  of 
the  man  she  desired  above  all  else?  Angered  against 
her  people,  embittered  towards  the  brother  he  loved. 
Thane  Brandon,  she  felt,  would  never  again  turn 
to  Jo. 

Aloud  she  said : 

"  Poor  Jo!  it's  hard  on  her  .  .  .  another  woman's 
life  ruined  by  this  cursed  war!  Oh,  the  bitterness, 
George,  that  it  will  leave  for  years  to  come  between 
your  people  and  mine !  I  feel  so  miserable  when  I 
think  of  it  —  the  long  trail  of  years  stretching  ahead 
in  the  land,  with  the  children  yet  unborn  who  will  be 
born  with  the  hate  for  their  fellow-Afrikanders  im- 
planted in  their  young  hearts  because  of  the  strife 
of  to-day  —  the  thought  is  so  sickening  that  I  could 
almost  wish  for  death  to  ease  my  mind  of  the  burden 
it  brings  to  my  heart." 

"  Don't  dwell  on  it,"  he  replied,  with  gentle  com- 
mand in  his  tones  as  he  remembered  her  mother's 
suggestion,  "  keep  about  in  the  open  air  as  much  as 
possible  while  I  am  over  at  the  camp;  and, 
Aletta  —  "  he  turned  to  her  with  a  keen  look  in  the 
deep-set  blue  eyes,  a  look  she  understood  and  bowed 
before  "  —  don't  encourage  Bouwer's  visits." 

"Visits!"  she  exclaimed  Indignantly,  "he  has 
come  but  once  unknown  to  you  —  last  evening;  he 


192  DIVIDED 

came  on  here  not  finding  the  old  people  at  home. 
He  won't  come  again.    Why  should  he*?  " 

Eyes  and  voice  challenged  him;  her  husband 
merely  nodded. 

"And  he  arranged  to  allow  your  father  to  go 
off?" 

She  shrugged  her  broad  shoulders. 

"  He  didn't  find  him  here.  Pa  went  off  earlier  in 
the  day,  as  my  mother  told  you." 

George  made  no  comment  though  he  understood, 
and  his  wife  divined  that  he  understood,  the  arrange- 
ment which  had  been  entered  into  with  Bouwer 
whereby  his  arrival  at  the  camp  would  cover  his 
father-in-law's  defection.  To  this  arrangement  he 
felt  not  the  slightest  objection,  but  that  Bouwer 
should  have  been  the  one  to  grant  the  favour  to  his 
wife  rankled  somewhat.  Of  this,  however,  he  made 
no  sign,  merely  remarking  as  he  moved  away :  "I 
shall  not  be  long." 

As  he  passed  on  his  way  down  the  hill,  Jo,  who 
had  wandered  towards  the  spur  of  the  mountain- 
side that  overlooked  the  post-house,  called  to  him. 
He  raised  his  eyes  and  saw  her  standing  above  him, 
bare-headed,  with  clasped  hands. 

"  George,  give  my  love  to  Margery." 

"  Yes,  I  will,"  he  replied. 

"  Tell  her  not  to  nurse  her  anger  against  me." 

He  nodded,  knowing  there  was  something  behind. 
Johanna  came  nearer,  stepping  lightly  between  the 
boulders  half-hidden  by  the  dried  herbage  and  scrub 


DIVIDED  193 

covering  the  hard,  rocky  soil.  Looking  up  at  her, 
as  she  slithered  like  some  agile,  graceful  panther  over 
the  rugged  mountain-side,  the  young  man  could  see 
her  dark  eyes  —  no  longer  slumbrous  and  love-laden 
but  alive  with  a  restless,  consuming  passion,  wild 
with  an  unfathomable  dread.  She  slid  to  the  ground 
on  the  edge  of  a  projecting  spur  immediately  above 
him  and  knelt,  with  slim  brown  fingers  pressing  upon 
the  dried  carpet  of  the  rank,  dun-coloured  grass  and 
scrub,  staring  down  intently  into  the  soft  blue  of  his 
uplifted  gaze. 

"  George,"  she  implored.  "  Why,  broertje  —  why 
seek  to  mix  yourself  up  in  a  trouble  that  does  not 
concern  you"?  Oh,  George!  stay  with  us  so  long 
as  they  let  you  alone,  and  then  —  when  the  sum- 
monses come  —  slip  away  with  Thane;  that  won't 
be  many  days  hence,"  she  added,  despondently,  "  but 
he  knows  —  thank  the  Lord  —  he  knows !  " 

"  How  does  Thane  know?  "  / 

"  But,  of  course,  I  told  him,"  she  replied,  simply. 

"  You  give  away  Bouwer's  secrets  —  your  peo- 
ple's secrets,  Jo?  "  George  said,  gravely. 

"  To  Thane  —  yes :  I  would  give  away  my  soul 
if  that  would  help  him." 

He  looked  compassionately  at  the  girl  as  she  knelt 
above  him,  a  lonely  figure  on  the  wild  grey  waste,  a 
very  incarnation  of  the  intensest  love  of  woman  ani- 
mated and  consumed  by  that  half-divine,  soul-sear- 

"IT 

ing  breath  of  passion  —  so  rare  a  gift  to  mortals,  so 
■undesirable  to  the  ordinary  conditions  governing  this 


194  DIVIDED 

prosaic  life.  A  sudden  sense  of  deepest  pity  for  her 
filled  his  heart,  and  for  the  first  time  he  saw  as  in  a 
flash  of  sudden  enlightenment  the  difference  between 
Aletta's  love  for  himself  and  this  wild,  dominant 
passion  called  forth  by  his  brother  from  the  impas- 
sioned soul  of  her  sister. 

"  Think,  George,"  Johanna  implored,  stretching 
out  a  hand  as  though  in  supplication,  "  think  of  the 
sorrow  your  going  to  join  the  Boers  will  bring  on 
them  —  down  there,"  she  pointed  to  the  post- 
house.  "  Your  father  is  an  old  man,  his  heart 
wrapped  up  in  his  first-born  son ;  would  you  kill  him 
with  cruel  suspense  and  anxiety  and  shame*?  —  yes, 
sJiame^  George,  for  he  holds  it  black  shame  that  you 
should  be  in  the  company  of  men  armed  against  Eng- 
land. And  Thane  holds  it  black  shame  also  .  .  . 
and  Margery  —  poor  girl  —  she  does  not  care  about 
Boer  or  Briton,  only  about  you,  broertje;  would  you 
bring  heavy  sorrow  on  her  heart?  Is  it  right  to  treat 
your  people  so?  And  —  "  her  voice  faltered,  then 
grew  deeper  —  *'  and  if  I  am  worth  considering, 
George,  think,  toch!  think  of  me,  of  my  trouble, 
which  —  "  she  added  impressively  —  "  would  be  no 
trouble  at  all  if  only  you  do  not  join  the  Boers." 

"  What  difference  would  my  joining  make  to 
you?  "  he  asked,  in  some  doubt  as  to  the  implication 
conveyed  by  her  last  words. 

"  What  difference,  do  you  ask,  George  Brandon?  " 
she  shrilled,  in  a  flash  of  wild  anger  and  misery 
caused  by  the  apparent  callousness  of  his  question. 


DIVIDED  195 

"  Just  the  difference  there  is  between  the  rapture  of 
the  saint  in  heaven  and  the  suffering  of  the  sinner 
in  hell  I  —  just  the  difference  between  the  joy  and 
the  bliss  and  the  deep,  unspeakable  happiness  of  the 
redeemed  in  Paradise,  and  the  anguish  and  horror 
and  the  gnawing-of-the-worm-that-never-dies  of  the 
lost  in  torment  —  certain  of  their  everlasting  por- 
tion of  woe  —  of  their  doom  of  despair  —  lost  to 
hope!  That's  the  difference  it  will  mean  to  me, 
George.  I  shall  have  lost  my  last  hope  .  .  .  for 
hasn't  Thane  sworn  on  his  word  —  before  his  God 

—  yes,"  —  she  turned  ghastly  white  and  trembled 
and  swayed,  "sworn  even  —  by  the  memory  —  of 

—  his  —  mother,"  she  faltered,  each  word  falling 
slowly. 

"  Sworn  what*?  "  George  asked,  and  his  voice,  too, 
was  low  and  troubled. 

"  To  give  me  up,"  she  cried,  miserably,  "  to  give 
me  up  if  ever  you  join  the  Boers.'' 

At  this  fresh  complication  in  the  situation,  this 
fresh  obstacle  in  the  path  of  his  duty,  the  young  man 
felt  again  the  clutch  of  the  toils  in  which  the  mon- 
ster of  strife  and  unrest  had  involved  him.  To  Jo 
in  her  pain  and  misery  what  answer  could  he  make? 
How  refuse  her  prayer,  which  yet  he  was  unable  to 
grant? 

"  Jo,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  you  must  think  no 
more  of  Thane.  If  he  loved  you  truly  —  loved  you 
in  the  only  way  that  could  satisfy  your  heart  —  he 


196  DIVIDED 

never  would  have  sworn  that  oath;  my  joining  the 
Boers  would  not  have  made  him  love  you  less." 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  impatiently. 

"  Oh!  go  your  ways  I  go  your  ways  I  "  she  cried, 
wildly.  "  If  you  were  not  always  half-way  up  in 
the  clouds  with  your  notions  of  goodness  and  right 
and  duty  you  would  know  better  the  strength  of  that 
bitter,  cruel,  human  love  which  your  brother  has  for 
you  —  so  bitter  and  cruel  to  the  one  who  has  it  in 
his  heart  when  he  falls  out  with  the  one  he  loves! 
Thane  loves  you,  George,  with  this  fierce  love  of 
man,  passing  the  passionate  love  he  bears  to  woman. 
That  is  how  he  loves  you,  and  that  is  how  I  love 
him  —  cruelly,  horribly,  without  pause,  or  rest,  or 
ease  from  my  cruel  pain  .  .  .  You,  with  your  soft, 
sweet  nature  and  mild,  gracious  soul  —  you  oan't 
even  understand  such  a  love !  Is  it  sent  by  God  or 
the  devil?  I  ask  myself,  and  I  can't  answer,  for  I 
don't  know  whether  it  is  a  gift  from  heaven  or  hell 
...  I  only  know  —  and  I  tell  you,  George  —  it's 
like  this  that  a  woman  feels  when  she  loves  a  man, 
she  would  welcome  even  death  from  his  hands  .  .  . 
yes,  if  he  took  her  up  and  threw  her  into  that  still, 
dark  pool  lying  down  there  "  —  she  pointed  towards 
the  river-bed  —  "  she  would  be  content  to  let  her 
flesh  and  her  bones,  her  softness  and  her  beauty  — 
all  that  made  her  dear  to  the  man  —  rot  and 
moulder  away  down  in  that  cold  bed  of  darkness  and 
slime  and  filth  because  it  was  his  hand  that  threw  her 
there ! " 


DIVIDED  197 

"  Jo  I "  remonstrated  George,  horrified  by  her 
looks  and  words  which  betrayed  the  unmistakable 
force  and  intensity  of  her  ill-regulated,  ill-starred 
passion :    "Jo  —  my  poor  girl " 

But  she  had  turned  swiftly  away,  and  disappeared 
—  swallowed  up  amid  the  grey  patches  of  stone  and 
bush  covering  the  face  of  the  rocky  veldt  —  and  he 
pursued  his  way  in  silence. 


XI 


As  he  reached  the  footbridge,  he  came  face  to  face 
with  Thane.  Strange,  unfamiliar  lines  of  care  and 
unrest  marked  the  strong,  dark  face  with  the  heavy, 
threatening  brows,  stamping  it  with  a  haggard,  un- 
wonted air  which  told  the  tale  of  the  hours  of  con- 
flicting pain  and  fury  and  remorse  through  which  the 
younger  man  had  passed.  Dark,  brooding  anger 
flashed  from  the  black  depths  of  his  steel-grey  eyes; 
his  mouth  was  set  and  hard. 

The  brothers  looked  intently  at  each  other  in  a 
silence  that  seemed  to  either  man  age-long. 

Then  Thane  spoke : 

"  I  told  Margery  I'd  never  again  set  foot  on  the 
Top  Farm  till  you'd  come  to  your  senses,  George,  yet 
I  am  fool  enough  to  be  on  the  way  there  to  look 
you  up." 

"  Thane,  I  am  on  the  way  to  see  you." 

"  Then  let  us  talk  things  over  here." 

They  remained  on  the  bridge,  their  faces  turned 
toward  the  downward  flow  of  the  stream  where  it 
raced  around  the  huge,  flat-topped  boulder  set  in 
mid-current,  below  which  lay  the  dark,  silent,  bot- 
tomless pool.    Thane's  massive  frame  dominated  the 

198 


DIVIDED  199 

narrow  little  structure  as  he  stood  firmly  upright, 
his  long  legs  planted  widely  apart,  his  hands  dug 
deeply  in  the  pockets  of  his  smart  crimson  knitted 
waistcoat,  a  gift  worked  by  the  clever  fingers  of  the 
luckless  Johanna.  His  brother,  stooping  slightly, 
grasped  with  both  hands  the  rough  log  side-rails  of 
the  rustic  bridge. 

Below,  raced  the  darkened  water  from  whose 
surface  the  sunlight  was  gone,  rippling  in  sweet  ca- 
dences the  ceaseless,  harmonious  babble  of  its  haunt- 
ing, echoing  song;  above,  stretched  the  calm  dove- 
grey  of  the  evening  skies;  around,  lay  the  inscru- 
table mystery  of  the  long  black  shadows  falling  from 
the  uplands  and  stretching,  like  mighty  giants  in 
their  slumbers,  across  the  bare,  flat  plain  of  the 
veldt-world. 

"  George,"  said  Thane,  unbosoming  himself  with 
a  difficulty  of  effort  comprehended  alone  by  the 
brother  to  whom  his  rare  childish  confessions  had 
been  made,  "I've  never  stooped  to  ask  grace  of  any 
man  living  —  yet  I've  trampled  on  my  feelings  and 
forced  myself  to  the  scratch,  and  here  I  am  to  talk 
over  this  damned  war-business  with  you.  Look  here, 
old  man,  you  must  not  join  the  Boers  —  no,  you 
must  not  look  them  up  at  Louw's  Krantz,  not  even 
for  an  hour." 

"  You  make  it  harder.  Thane,"  George  said,  pa- 
tiently, "  I  feel  I  must  do  my  share " 

"  I  can't  reason  with  you  about  duty,  George," 
his  brother  interrupted  quickly,  still  with  an  effort 


200  DIVIDED 

keeping  the  rein  on  his  rising  fury  and  making  his 
tones  persuasive  and  conciliatory,  "  for  your  idea  of 
duty  is  that  you  should  go  and  help  the  Boers,  mine 
that  you  should  respect  the  blood  in  your  veins  and 
remain  neutral  in  this  tangle  between  England  and 
the  Transvaal.  There's  no  use  in  arguing  when  two 
see  a  duty  from  different  points  of  view.  I  can  re- 
spect your  motives  and  you  can  respect  my  views; 
but,  George,  old  man,  give  it  up  —  give  it  up.  "  He 
stretched  out  a  muscular,  broad,  sun-browned  hand. 
"  Do  you  mark  that  pool  there  into  which  you 
tumbled  to  defend  my  honour,  George"?  Well,  I 
would  willingly  bury  myself  in  the  slimy,  horrible 
grave  yonder  if  that  would  stop  you  from  your  mad 
purpose  I " 

The  signals  of  rising  storm,  tempestuous  and  un- 
governable, were  leaping  and  fusing  in  those  dark, 
steel-grey  eyes.  As  Thane  spoke  —  shortly  but  pas- 
sionately —  George  recognized  the  signs  as  indica- 
tions of  his  true  feelings  in  the  matter.  He  recog- 
nized that  these  words  were  no  mere  vain  boasting 
on  the  part  of  his  brother,  felt  the  truth  of  their 
import  and  understood  the  intensity  and  bitterness  by 
which  Thane  was  animated,  and  again  a  sense  of  the 
thorny  path  he  essayed  to  tread  —  the  final  heart- 
rending reality  of  all  that  his  decision  involved  upon 
those  he  held  most  dear  —  swept  over  him  in  a  tide 
of  irresistible,  forceful  and  insistent  appeal,  renew- 
ing again  within  his  mind  and  soul  that  hard  con- 
flict between  country  and  home-ties,  between  his 
patriotism  and  filial  and  fraternal  affections. 


DIVIDED  201 

"  George,  you  know  me  for  no  idle  babbler  .  .  . 
that,  before  our  Maker,  is  how  I  feel  this  thing 
.  .  .  For  my  sake,  George,  give  it  up  ...  I  stoop 
to  ask  you  for  my  sake." 

It  was  his  brother  pleading  to  him  —  the  brother 
whose  proud  nature  disdained  to  ask  anything  of  any 
man.  Not  another,  but  Thane  —  ^hane  for  whom 
he  would  have  given  all  he  held  dear. 

And  Thane  was  pleading  —  not  for  himself: 
George  understood  that,  despite  the  words  in  which 
he  had  clothed  his  request  —  words  which  he  con- 
sidered the  most  likely  to  carry  weight  with  the 
brother  whose  true  affections  he  never  could  doubt. 
It  was  for  Ms  sake  he  was  thus  pleading,  George  un- 
derstood —  for  his  sake ;  because  Thane  could  not 
bear  the  thought  that  the  brother  he  held  in  such 
love,  such  honour,  such  high  esteem,  should  act  un- 
worthily —  should  bring  a  slur  upon  his  name ;  this 
it  was  which  wrung  from  his  proud  heart  and  defiant 
lips  the  pathetic  plea  "  for  my  sake." 

Like  an  echo  from  the  spur  of  the  headland  came 
the  wail  of  the  woman's  voice :  "  Think  of  me  — 
of  my  trouble,  which  would  be  no  trouble  at  all  if 
only  you  do  not  go  " ;  from  the  twinkling  lights  in 
the  old  homestead  above  the  garden  came  the  prayer 
of  his  father:  "  My  boy,  don't  do  this  thing  "  ;  the 
cry  of  his  sister :    "  My  brother !  my  brother !  " 

As  he  heard  each  individual  cry  and  appeal,  as  the 
thought  of  the  suffering  he  was  bringing  upon  each 
and  all  of  these  loved  ones  —  the  closest  and  dear- 


202  DIVIDED 

est  to  his  affections  —  George  Brandon's  heart  and 
nerve  and  courage  and  resolution  suddenly  failed 
him,  and  with  a  bitter  word  he  told  himself  that  he 
could  not  do  this  thing  I  Was  he  not  indeed  attempt- 
ing more  than  mortal  man  —  a  mere  atom  in  the 
mighty  scheme  of  Creation  —  should  undertake? 
Was  it  possible  that  a  Father  of  infinite  compassion, 
a  God  of  infinite  comprehension,  would  expect  so 
unnatural  a  sacrifice  from  a  creature  of  dust  moulded 
in  the  common  clay  of  our  humanity,  whose  sole 
impulse  towards  the  divine  is  reflected  in  the  strong 
bond  of  human  affection,  in  the  close  ties  of  family 
love  knitting  individual  to  individual,  brother  to 
brother?  It  could  not  be !  His  love  of  country  had 
surely  obscured  for  him  the  right  path  —  the  true 
duty !  George  Brandon  reasoned  fiercely  in  his  pain 
and  agony  of  mind,  clutching  at  every  straw  sweep- 
ing down  the  stream  of  the  perturbed  current  of  his 
violent  emotions  as  a  drowning  man  might  clutch 
at  the  straws  gliding  by  upon  the  mighty  current 
of  the  whirling  cataract  of  waters  sweeping  him  to 
his  doom;  and  as  he  thus  reasoned,  clutching  wildly 
at  every  passing  doubt  or  vague  supposition,  his 
strong,  true  patriotism,  his  high  conception  of  duty, 
went  perilously  near  to  sailing  down  the  wind. 

His  hands  gripped  hard  at  the  uneven  surface  of 
the  rough  log-parapet,  as  with  bowed  shoulders  he 
bent  forward,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  dark,  unresting 
waters  as  though  to  gain  strength  and  inspiration 
from  the  hurrying  stream.    Then  he  found  himself 


DIVIDED  203 

attracted  by  the  haunting  melody  of  the  voice  of 
the  stream,  so  like  the  murmur  of  some  long-forgot- 
ten voice  heard  in  the  far-off  early  days  when  the 
spell  of  the  unknown,  the  mystical  and  the  ideal  pos- 
sessed and  quickened  the  fresh,  eager,  idyllic  spirit 
of  the  boy-child.  He  bent  his  head  to  catch  the 
message  of  the  stream.  He  heard  no  longer  Thane's 
outpouring  of  burning  entreaty.  Over  and  over 
came  the  voice  of  the  waters,  conveying  and  re- 
peating —  now  loudly,  now  softly,  now  in  sonorous 
tones,  then  in  gentlest  whispers,  its  brief,  insistent 
message  of  the  paramount  claim  of  duty;  of  the  obli- 
gation laid  upon  a  man  to  follow  the  right. 

He  straightened  himself;  his  course  lay  clear  be- 
fore him.  That  message,  those  words,  suddenly 
spoken  to  his  heart  and  soul,  admitted  of  no  misin- 
terpretation. He  no  longer  doubted  as  to  his  choice, 
he  felt  that  he  had  chosen  aright.  The  thorny  path 
of  duty  lay  before  him,  sacred  now  in  his  eyes. 
Should  he  evade  it,  he  would  be  unworthy  of  his 
Saviour  —  the  great  Exemplar  and  Divine  Master 
who,  for  love  of  humanity,  had  borne  the  Cross. 

This  was  his  appointed  cross  .  .  .  Should  he 
shrink  from  it"? 

Thane,  looking  into  his  eyes,  read  his  purpose  and 
fell  back  appalled  and  silenced. 

George's  arm  was  round  the  big,  massive  shoulder; 
his  gentle  blue  eyes  raised  with  pity,  and  love,  and 
comprehension  to  those  black,  defiant  brows;  his 
right  hand  locked  in  his  brother's  as  when,  in  the 


204  DIVIDED 

happy  years  of  childhood,  these  two  had  fallen 
asleep  together  after  the  day's  work  and  play  — 
after,  maybe,  the  whispered  confession  of  naughti- 
ness; the  ready,  generous  response  of  forgiveness,  or 
encouragement,  or  counsel,  bringing  happiness,  peace, 
content  to  either  little  soul. 

"  Forgive  me,  old  chap,"  George  was  saying,  in 
a  voice  that  pierced  to  the  depths  of  Thane's  fiercely- 
embittered  heart.  "  A  man  must  follow  a  duty 
when  he  sees  it  —  or  he  would  be  unworthy  his  man- 
hood —  unworthy  his  Saviour,"  he  added  in  a  lower 
voice. 

"  George,"  his  brother  replied,  in  tones  low  and 
husky  with  repressed  emotion ;  "  your  duty  is  to  clear 
out  with  me.  Listen;  didn't  Margery  go  over  to 
the  lands  this  morning  with  my  message?  " 

"  How  came  Jo  to  give  away  their  secrets? " 
asked  George,  in  return  to  the  question. 

"  So  you  know  all  about  it?  "  said  Thane.  "  Yes, 
Bouwer*s  let  the  old  man  off  on  condition  you  turn 
up  at  the  camp." 

"  I  know,"  his  brother  replied. 

"  You'll  regret  it  once,  and  that  will  be  for  alwa3rs 
and  ever  —  if  you  go,"  Thane  said,  impatiently. 

"  I  must  go ;  but,  Thane,  spare  Jo's  womanhood 
•  .  .  because  she  loves  you,  don't  trade  on  that." 

"Who's  trading  on  it?"  Thane  interrupted, 
hotly.  "  Damnation !  hasn't  it  been  to  help  you  that 
I've  stooped  to  this? "  he  questioned,  savagely. 
"  And  hear  what  I  have  to  say,"  he  continued  bit- 


DIVIDED  205 

terly,  dragging  his  arm  free  and  turning  away  — 
then  flinging  himself  round  to  gaze  with  cold,  set 
face  and  dark,  formidable  brows  into  his  brother's 
equally  pale,  equally  suffering  face;  "hear  for  the 
last  time  what  I've  got  to  say  I  Don't  think  they 
aren't  making  a  fool  of  you  —  Bouwer,  Aletta,  and 
the  old  people.  Don't  think  they  haven't  got  their 
plans  ready  cut  and  dried  —  that  canting  old  parson 
and  the  lot  of  'em !  I've  warned  you,  but  for  some 
fad,  some  fetish,  some  damned  nonsensical,  one-sided 
view  of  this  business  you've  turned  a  deaf  ear  to 
me  —  to  all  of  us,  and  to  all  our  prayers,  and  are 
heading  straight  for  trouble.  It's  that  cursed  woman 
and  her  lot!  Don't  tell  me  I  And  don't  think  I'll 
sit  tight  while  they  goad  you  into  this  business! 
Once  you  join  the  burghers,  I'll  join  t'other  lot  and 
fight  these  bushveldt  Boers  to  the  bitter  end  —  give 
'em  no  quarter  .  .  .  Think  me  a  brute,  do  you, 
George?  Maybe  I  am  that,  and  worse,  but  it'll  not 
be  me  but  the  very  devil  you'll  put  into  me  by  going 
along  with  them." 

With  these  hard  words,  savagely  spoken;  these 
cruel  utterances  torn  from  his  embittered  heart  and 
falling  forcefully  from  his  set,  white  lips.  Thane 
jerked  himself  off  the  bridge  and  strode  in  blind  rage 
up  the  pathway  leading  to  the  house,  George  follow- 
ing slowly. 


XII 


Later  on  in  the  evening,  as  he  recrossed  the  bridge 
on  his  return  to  his  home,  it  was  Margery  who  stood 
by  his  side,  her  hands  industriously  dusting  imagi- 
nary specks  from  his  coat-collar,  her  dimmed  eyes 
averted. 

"  We  had  a  scene  this  afternoon  —  here,"  George 
admitted  in  reply  to  her  inquiries. 

She  smothered  the  deep  sigh  that  rose  from  her 
labouring  breast. 

"  I  look  to  you,  Margery  dear,  to  help  Thane 
through  this  trouble.  Be  very  patient  with  him, 
dear." 

"I'll  see  to  him;  don't  you  worry,"  she  forced 
herself  to  speak  cheerfully.  Her  face  was  calm  as 
she  kissed  him  on  the  lips. 

"  Well,  so  long."  She  tried  to  utter  the  words 
cheerfully,  but  they  stuck  in  her  throat,  and  her 
voice  rang  toneless  and  hollow.  George  caught  the 
stifled  anguish  and  his  heart  suffered  consciously 
with  hers.  Both  knew,  both  felt,  the  silent  sorrow 
of  the  other  —  the  hidden,  unbearable  pain. 

"  We  shall  see  you  .  .  .  again  .  .  .  soon." 

"  As  soon  as  I  can  manage  it  ...  So  long,  old 
girl." 

206 


DIVIDED  207 

She  watched  his  tall  form  till  it  faded  from  sight, 
lost  in  the  dim  light  of  the  evening  shadows.  He 
had  spoken  no  word  of  farewell,  had  breathed  no 
hint  of  parting,  but  intuitively  his  sister  recognized 
that  the  hour  was  at  hand,  that  this  visit  had  been 
his  farewell  to  his  old  home  and  his  loved  ones. 

With  a  low  outburst  of  her  long-repressed  agony 
of  mind,  she  clutched  the  rails  of  the  bridge  while 
the  salt  tears  ran  down  her  pale,  worn  face  to  fall 
into  and  mix  with  the  unresisting  waters  of  the  hur- 
rying stream. 

He  had  spoken  no  word  of  farewell,  but  she  knew 
that  he  had  gone  from  them;  the  being  dearest  to 
her  soul,  most  precious  to  her  existence,  had  left  her 
to  take  his  part  in  the  uncertainties  and  perils  of 
the  sharp  conflict  drawing  nearer  day  by  day,  in- 
creasing steadily  in  magnitude  and  might.  What  if 
harm  befell  him?  .  .  .  She  pushed  back  the  unbear- 
able thought. 

"  I  must  see  him  again;  I  must!  "  She  told  her- 
self he  would  leave  on  the  morrow  —  probably  at 
dawn;  that  he  would  take  the  bridle-path  over 
World's  View  —  the  short  cut  to  Louw's  Krantz. 

"  Thane  must  see  him  .  .  .  and  —  and  —  be 
pleasant,"  she  vowed  hotly.  "  I'll  make  him !  It's  a 
cruel  shame ;  poor  old  George !  going  off  like  that  — 
we'll  start  at  daylight,  and  overtake  him  as  he  climbs 
the  hill." 

Comforted  a  little  by  the  thought,  she  raised  her- 
self and  put  back  the  tangle  of  hair  that  had  fallen 


2o8  DIVIDED 

about  her  wet  eyes.  Through  the  darkness  a  form 
advancing  down  the  hill  from  the  direction  of  the 
Top  Farm  startled  her;  it  might  possibly  be  her 
brother  returning.    She  called  softly : 

"  Is  that  you,  George?  " 

"  No."  It  was  Woodward's  voice  that  answered, 
and  he  came  nearer,  raising  his  cap  as  he  spoke. 
Through  the  dim  light  her  face  —  white,  and  worn 
and  suffering  —  confirmed  his  reflections  that  the 
hour  of  parting  was  upon  the  family  at  the  post- 
house.  "  I  have  just  passed  your  brother,"  he  added. 
"  We  had  a  little  talk." 

Something  in  his  tones  made  her  aware  of  his 
sympathy,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  presence  she 
spoke  recklessly,  openly,  angrily: 

"Oh,  why  are  we  made  to  suffer  so  horribly*? 
Why  should  human  beings  be  called  upon  to  endure 
agony  beyond  power  of  mortal  brain  to  bear?  How 
hideous  life  is !  " 

The  agony  of  her  loss  returned  in  full  force  upon 
her.  Before  her  hard  suffering  Woodward  stood 
mute.  In  the  dim  light  —  her  tall  figure  bent  and 
bowed,  her  eyes  full  of  gloomy,  smouldering  anger 
and  pain,  her  voice  dull  and  bitter  —  she  appeared 
to  him  the  exponent  of  all  the  anguish,  the  grief- 
stricken,  the  suffering,  the  unblest  among  her  fel- 
lows. In  the  face  of  such  a  grief  —  borne  hardly, 
pressing  directly  upon  her  brain  —  he  felt  himself 
powerless,  dumb-stricken ! 

She  turned  suddenly,  and  he  walked  by  her  side 


DIVIDED  209 

up  the  pathway  and  through  the  orchard,  where  the 
fruit-trees  were  bursting  into  bud  and  leaf.  Soon 
these  would  don  their  loveliest  hues  beneath  the  burn- 
ing kiss  of  advancing  summer  as  it  pressed  upon  the 
land  like  the  passionate  kiss  of  love  pressed  hotly 
upon  youth.  Yet  now  the  garden  lay  barren,  de- 
serted, unlovely  and  unblest.  He  longed  to  breathe 
hope  into  this  stricken,  storm-tossed  human  heart, 
yet  still  he  found  no  words. 

"  Life  is  thrust  upon  us,"  her  voice  was  cold,  and 
toneless,  and  hard,  "  we  don't  ask  for  it  —  we  can't 
reject  it  —  when  at  last  we  understand  it  is  too  late 
then  to  say  to  the  Giver,  *  No  thank  you.'  " 

"  There  are  compensations,"  he  ventured  gently, 
"  you  can't  see  them  now  —  but  you  will  —  I  am 
sure  you  will  at  some  future." 

"  Why  should  you  be  sure?  —  that's  all  rubbish," 
she  said,  coldly.  "  And  as  for  compensations,  if  by 
such  you  mean  our  friends  —  those  we  love,  those 
dearest  and  most  precious  to  our  souls  —  these  are 
not  compensations  .  .  .  these  are  the  very  sources  of 
our  keenest  agony,  our  greatest  suffering;  for  did  we 
not  love,  we  should  never  agonize." 

He  put  out  his  hand  and  touched  hers. 

"You  can't  see  it  now;  how  should  you*?"  he 
said,  gently.  "  I  can  feel  for  your  trouble,"  he  added 
with  low  emphasis ;  "  you  are  called  upon  to  bear  a 
very  heavy  trial,  though  I  hope  not  for  long.  Come, 
Miss  Margery,  don't  reject  my  friendship;  let  me 
help  you  through  this  bit  of  bad  time  before  you; 


210  DIVIDED 

you  can  throw  me  over  when  it  is  past  and  gone  if 
you  like,"  he  concluded  cheerfully. 

She  made  a  faint  movement  to  free  her  hand 
which  lay  imprisoned  beneath  his  strong,  warm 
pressure. 

"  Don't  pity  me  ...  I  must  be  hard  —  hard  — 
or  how  shall  I  ever  get  through  it*?  "  She  was  think- 
ing of  the  coming  morning  —  the  coming  parting. 
"I  —  must  —  stand  —  alone,"  she  muttered. 

"  No  need  for  that:  don't  you  think  me  a  friend 
worth  having?  "  he  asked  again.  "  Yes,  you  must 
accept  my  help :  you  may  need  a  trusty,  dependable 
fellow  —  one  who  will  fetch  and  carry  intelligently; 
I  promise  to  obey  your  orders  implicitly,  whatever 
they  may  be." 

They  had  reached  the  verandah,  and  she  paused  as 
though  in  thought,  raising  her  eyes,  deep-set  and 
penetrating,  to  his  face.  Here  indeed  was  the 
friend  she  so  sorely  needed.  But  dare  she  admit 
into  her  life  so  good  a  gift*?  Not  for  her  own  pleas- 
ure or  benefit,  but  in  case  of  need,  to  help  her  brother ; 
this  man  she  felt  would  prove  a  staunch  helper  and 
friend  in  trouble  or  necessity.  She  resolved  no 
longer  to  repulse  him. 

"I  believe  you  could  be  trusted;  Babs  thinks  so 
and  she  generally  knows,"  she  said  in  tones  a  trifle 
less  strained  and  cold;  and  with  this  grudging  con- 
cession Woodward  was  forced  to  remain  content. 


XIII 

When  Aletta  stirred  and  opened  her  eyes  shortly 
after  daybreak  she  missed  her  husband  from  her  side. 
She  rose  and  drew  on  her  stockings  and  striped  pet- 
ticoat; a  woollen  dressing-jacket  completed  her  cos- 
tume. She  could  hear  George  blowing  at  the  fire  in 
the  kitchen.  When  she  joined  him  there,  the  water 
was  already  bubbling  in  the  big  black  kettle  that 
hung  over  the  leaping  flames. 

"  Why  did  you  get  up,  Aletta?  "  her  husband  in- 
quired, turning  his  head  as  she  entered  and  crossed 
the  room.  "  It's  a  hard  frost  again,  and  bitterly  cold. 
I  would  have  brought  you  in  a  cup  of  coffee." 

She  took  the  coffee-pot  from  the  shelf.     ,     '  - 

"  I  will  make  it,  George,  and  fry  the  eggs  and 
bacon.  You  must  have  a  good  breakfast  —  there's 
a  long  ride  before  you." 

"  Then  I  will  see  to  the  horse,"  he  said  briefly,  and 
left  the  kitchen,  while  Aletta  busied  herself  over 
the  stove.  No  stab  of  agony  pierced  her  mind,  no 
heavy  thought  weighted  her  spirit.  She  was  proud 
of  the  fact  that  her  husband  was  at  last  starting  forth 
to  the  help  of  his  country,  that  he  was  riding  to  the 
burgher  camp.  Once  there,  and  it  was  impossible  but 

211 


212  DIVIDED 

that  he  should  take  his  share  in  the  attack  upon  the 
Irregulars  which  the  burgher  leaders  had  planned. 

Aletta's  very  love  for  her  husband  inspired  within 
her  the  desire  that  he  should  take  his  share  in  this 
glorious  work.  She  rejoiced  because  she  was  mated 
to  a  man  and  not  a  skulker.  How  many  among  the 
Boer  women  who  had  taken  to  themselves  men  of 
English  or  Scotch  nationality  (and  these  were  not  a 
few)  could  boast  of  having  sent  their  husbands  to 
swell  the  Boer  forces?  She  recognized  her  feat  — 
accomplished  in  the  face  of  the  bitterest  opposition 
from  her  husband's  family  —  and  was  proud  of  it. 

As  to  accident,  she  must  be  prepared  for  any  such 
eventuality  as  might  fall  to  the  lot  of  any  among  the 
commando.  If  harm  came  to  George,  it  would  be 
the  will  of  the  Lord,  and  she  would  have  to  accept, 
and  submit  to,  her  share  of  the  punishment  He  was 
sending  upon  the  land  and  upon  the  people.  Yet 
she  felt  any  such  danger  as  wounds  or  capture  to  be 
a  very  remote  and  unlikely  contingency.  Well  able 
to  evade  the  enemy  by  their  superior  knowledge  of 
localities,  the  bushveldt  Boers  were  more  likely  to 
ambush  the  Irregulars  than  to  be  entrapped  by  these 
foemen  from  the  sister-continent  —  skilled  in  bush- 
craft  though  they  were;  hard  riders,  straight  shoot- 
ers, dauntless  foes,  worth v  of  their  plucky  adver- 
saries. 

She  spoke  cheerfully  to  her  husband  as  he  took  his 
breakfast,  and  he  replied  composedly  to  her  remarks. 
Their  conversation  touched  chiefly  upon  the  active 


DIVIDED  213 

business  of  the  farm  work,  and  it  was  abundantly 
evident  to  the  young  man's  sensitive  ear  that  his  wife 
was  far  from  expecting  his  immediate  return.  She 
dipped  into  the  future  —  the  completion  of  the 
ploughing  of  the  larger  fields  —  the  crops  to  be 
sown.  She  had  thought  it  all  out  —  all  could  be 
done  by  this  one  or  that,  always  excepting  the  master. 

His  heart  within  him  was  heavy,  and  oppressed  by 
a  sense  of  trouble.  At  all  times,  under  the  most 
favourable  conditions,  it  is  a  wrench  to  a  man  to 
leave  wife  and  loved  ones  for  the  scene  of  war,  to 
exchange  the  peaceful  surroundings  of  home  for  the 
din  of  camp  life,  the  feeling  of  security  among  the 
familiar  and  the  accustomed  for  the  sense  of  lurking 
danger  and  peril  in  strange  surroundings.  Yet  how 
much  more  is  the  wrench  accentuated  when,  as  in  the 
case  of  George  Brandon,  the  faring  forth  to  active 
service  is  unblest  by  farewell  word  from  kith  and 
kin,  is  heightened  by  the  knowledge  of  sore  and  bit- 
ter trouble  left  behind  in  the  hearts  of  those  dear  to 
him!  His  words  were  few,  his  voice  low  and 
strained  —  anxiety,  sorrow,  heaviness  held  him  by 
the  throat,  and  he  rose  abruptly  from  the  table^  leav- 
ing Aletta  loudly  bewailing  his  lack  of  appetite. 

"  You  have  such  a  long  ride  before  you  ...  it 
is  such  a  cold  morning.  .  .  Ach,  then!  see,  I  have 
put  some  rusks  in  your  pocket  .  .  .  don't  forget  to 
eat  them  by  and  by." 

She  followed  him  to  the  stables,  a  shawl  thrown 
over  her  head,  and  watched  him  as  he  put  the  saddle 


214  DIVIDED 

on  the  sturdy  bay.  "  Roona,  carry  your  master, 
well,"  she  said,  patting  the  shining  flanks.  Outside 
the  stable,  as  they  stood  together,  she  laid  her  hand 
on  the  reins.  "  I'll  hold  him  while  you  fill  and  light 
your  pipe,"  for  the  cold  made  the  horse  restive.  But 
George  shook  his  head  and  his  wife  understood,  per- 
haps for  the  first  time,  something  of  the  depth  and 
intensity  of  her  husband's  feelings.  She  looked  at 
him  as  though  afraid :  "  But  —  George  —  why*?  " 
she  questioned  in  lowered  tones;  ''there  is  no  one 
dead!  " 

Only  the  death  of  a  very  near  relative  —  a  father, 
or  wife,  or  child  —  was,  according  to  Aletta's  views 
as  a  typical  Boer  woman,  of  sufficient  importance  to 
withhold  from  a  man  the  solace  of  his  beloved  pipe, 
to  demand  of  him  the  unlit  clay  reposing  coldly  in 
the  pocket  of  his  corduroys  I  No  word,  no  action  on 
the  part  of  her  husband  could  have  filled  her  with 
so  startling  a  realization  of  what  this  faring  forth 
to  join  the  ranks  of  his  brother  burghers  meant  to  him 
as  this  start  in  the  bitter  cold  of  the  early  morn- 
ing without  the  warm-breathing  consolation  of  the 
familiar  pipe. 

"  No,  little  woman,  I  don't  feel  like  it  this  min- 
ute—  later  on,  perhaps,"  George  replied,  a  faint 
smile  dawning  on  his  face  at  her  words.  He  turned 
to  her  and  put  his  arm  about  her.  Dropping  her 
hold  of  the  reins  she  clung  to  him. 

Enveloped  in  the  shadowy  greyness,  husband  and 
wife  stood  alone  together.    About  them  nature  slept; 


DIVIDED  215 

around  them  stretched  the  slumbering  earth-world. 
Before  them,  through  the  gloom,  shone  the  light  from 
the  kitchen  window,  indicating  the  home,  the  nest 
where  she  would  lie  snug;  behind,  rose  the  mountain 
height  over  which  he  must  travel  to  an  unknown 
future. 

"I  —  I  —  you  will  soon  be  back,  my  husband  — 
and  I  shall  be  so  proud  of  you." 

Her  heart,  even  beneath  his  parting  kiss,  glowed 
with  exultation  at  the  thought  of  the  task  to  which 
he  was  going.  Patriotism  stirred  the  sluggish  blood 
in  her  healthy,  glowing  body;  the  placid  spirit  within 
her  was  unusually  animated;  she  had  no  thought  of 
possible  mishap  to  George. 

"  Good-bye,"  was  all  he  could  say.  He  had  no 
such  exultation  of  feeling.  He  was  doing  what  he 
conceived  to  be  his  duty,  but  his  depression  was 
great,  the  sense  of  heavy  trouble  weighed  down  his 
habitual  cheerfulness.  His  voice  faltered  over  the 
simply-expressed  farewell,  then  he  steadied  it  to  its 
former  composure :  "  Take  care  of  yourself,  little 
woman ;  and  have  Jo  or  your  mother  with  you  .  .  . 
so  long,  dear." 

He  had  swung  himself  into  the  saddle,  had  gath- 
ered up  the  reins,  and  now  guided  the  capering  Roona 
round  the  corner  of  the  stables  along  the  lane  leading 
to  the  cart-track.  Then  a  quick  gallop  of  hoofs  on 
the  high  road  told  her  that  her  husband  had  gone 
from  her  and  from  their  mutual  home  to  play  the 
part  allotted  him  by  fate.    Now  she  could  catch  the 


2i6  DIVIDED 

sound  of  the  ringing  hoofs  but  faintly,  and  knew  that 
horse  and  rider  had  rounded  the  first  bend  in  the 
curving  track.  She  drooped  her  head;  then  raised  it 
proudly.  "  God  I  I  have  given  a  man  to  the  Cause  I 
Have  mercy,  and  send  him  back  safely  to  his  wife." 
Then  she  turned,  went  indoors,  and  so  back  to  her 
bed  and  slumbers. 

*  *  *  * 

But  George,  dismounting  at  the  first  bend  in  the 
road  as  it  swept  round  the  base  of  the  mountain,  di- 
verged into  the  bridle-path  which  at  this  point  fol- 
lowed directly  the  upward  slope  of  the  height.  The 
path  was  narrow  and  rugged,  cut  through  the  thick 
bush  which  clothed  the  higher  levels  of  the  mountain, 
and  it  was  over  rough  stumps  and  charred  roots  hid- 
den by  the  rank  grass  and  trailing  creepers  that  he 
led  the  reluctant  Roona.  Under  a  wall  of  shadows 
from  the  dense  bush  on  either  side  of  the  bridle-path, 
up  and  up  the  steep  rise,  man  and  horse  tramped 
slowly.  Daylight  was  approaching  and  it  grew 
brighter  with  each  passing  moment.  The  stirring  of 
bird  and  beast  and  insect  life  could  be  heard  in  the 
fastnesses  of  the  wooded  thicket  through  which  the 
track  ran.  A  herd  of  deer,  seeking  the  water  below, 
emerged  from  the  bush  and  crossed  the  bridle-path 
before  again  plunging  into  the  undergrowth.  "  What 
a  splendid  shot !  "  thought  the  young  man,  trying  to 
divert  his  mind  from  the  oppressive  burden  of 
thought  that  lay  heavy  upon  it.  Pulling  at  Roona's 
bridle  he  climbed  steadily  upward  through  the  long, 


DIVIDED  217 

brown  grasses  and  thorny,  trailing  growths ;  over  the 
stumps,  and  half-concealed  boulders,  and  moss- 
grown  stones.  Up  the  narrow,  rugged  track  man  and 
horse  moved  dim  and  ghostlike  until,  on  the  rising 
ground,  the  mists  around  them  began  to  clear.  Then 
through  the  tree-tops  the  brightening  heavens  looked 
down  with  promise  of  a  fair  day. 

George  thought  of  his  interrupted  ploughing  —  of 
his  spring  crops,  of  the  later  and  more  important  sum- 
mer harvest.  The  agricultural  portion  of  the  Bran- 
don property  lay  chiefly  on  the  Top  Farm,  around 
the  slopes  of  the  hill  side,  and  the  care  of  this  im- 
portant pastoral  industry  fell  to  the  elder  brother's 
share.  The  absence  of  the  farmer  at  this  particular 
time  would  ruin  both  the  early  and  later  seasons' 
crops;  for  in  the  absence  of  the  master,  the  native 
servants,  however  faithful  and  willing  they  might 
be,  would  fail  through  incompetence  to  carry  on  the 
necessary  work  to  a  successful  conclusion.  Aletta, 
no  doubt,  would  see  to  the  lands  immediately  ad- 
joining the  Top  Farm  homestead;  but  would  Thane 
superintend  the  work  of  those  more  extensive  lands 
further  afield?  For  the  sake  of  the  successive  crops 
of  maize  and  wheat,  of  barley  and  oats  to  be  gleaned 
with  the  coming  harvests,  George  devoutly  trusted  he 
would  not  be  detained  for  long  from  his  property. 

His  thoughts  centred  on  the  obdurate,  implacable 
Thane.  He  was  taking  his  business  so  hardly.  He 
remembered  his  brother's  violence  of  temper,  his  in- 
domitable will,  his  strong,  unbending  nature,  his  in- 


2i8  DIVIDED 

flexible  pride ;  remembered,  also,  with  a  pang  of  pity, 
the  rare  devotion  and  unselfish  affection  which  ani- 
mated that  wilful,  masterful  soul,  and  his  heart  soft- 
ened towards  Thane,  and  the  struggle  again  stirred 
to  life  within  his  mind.  For  Thane's  sake  ought  he 
to  turn  back  —  to  take  no  part  in  the  defence  of  his 
country*?  But  again  the  consciousness  that  it  was  his 
duty  to  share  in  the  perils  and  hardships  of  this  en- 
deavour, swept  over  him.  He  pulled  resolutely  at 
the  bridle  and  moved  on. 

He  had  reached  the  opening  in  the  bush  and  now 
emerged  on  to  the  bare,  level,  boulder-piled  summit 
where  World's  View  reared  high  its  topmost  peak. 
He  cleared  the  last  of  the  overhanging  mass  of  trees 
with  their  tangle  of  climbing  plant-life  and  dense, 
thorny  undergrowth,  and  now  before  his  vision  lay 
mile  upon  mile  of  plain,  rolling  east  and  west,  north 
and  south,  on  all  sides  to  the  utmost  limits  of  the 
horizon.  Remote  and  melancholy,  the  scarred,  pas- 
sionate face  of  the  veldt  lying  in  the  dim  light  of 
the  breaking  day  appeared  to  him  as  though  stamped 
with  the  sufferings  of  her  sons  who  suffered  from  the 
presence  of  the  Monster  of  War  pressed  upon  the 
face  of  the  land.  When  should  come  the  hour  of 
deliverance"?  All  around,  awakening  Nature  —  un- 
perturbed by  the  presence  of  armed  forces  whose 
blood  daily  watered  the  soil  —  started  the  pulses  of 
her  mighty  machinery.  The  sky  was  turning  roseate ; 
lines  of  blurred  gold,  and  crimson,  and  purple 
streaked  finger-prints  across  the  bare  expanse  of  an 


DIVIDED  219 

as-yet-unwritten-upon  firmament;  the  fur  and  feath- 
ered tribes  rustled  and  twittered. 

As  he  stood  by  the  side  of  the  panting  Roona,  the 
sound  of  voices  was  wafted  to  him  from  below.  He 
listened  intently,  then  flung  the  bridle  over  Roona's 
head  and  turned  back  to  the  pathway  through  the 
bush  from  which  he  had  just  emerged.  Through  the 
rare,  still  air  of  the  morning  he  could  catch  the  note 
of  a  human  voice.  His  thoughts  turned  to  his 
brother.  World's  View  was,  as  Babs  had  proudly  in- 
formed Woodward,  sacred  to  the  use  of  the  Bran- 
dons alone.  At  this  early  hour  no  one  but  Thane 
would  be  climbing  the  mountain-path.  Had  Mar- 
gery persuaded  him  into  so  doing *?  His  heart,  filled 
with  a  wild  desire  to  see  his  brother  once  again,  beat 
high  with  new  hope.  He  strained  through  the  dense 
patches  of  bush.  Now  he  could  see  something  white 
fluttering  at  intervals  between  the  trees.  It  was  a 
woman's  skirts. 

*  Margery's  figure  turned  the  bend.  She  was  breath- 
less, her  steps  dragged  wearily,  a  basket  hung  on  her 
arm.  She  lifted  her  eyes  to  where  her  brother  stood 
blocking  the  narrow  path,  and  he  was  horrified  by 
her  aspect.  Her  eyes  were  dull  and  sunken,  her  face 
haggard  and  careworn,  her  voice  hollow  and  broken. 
"  George,  I  have  been  calling  —  and  calling,"  she 
said,  faintly. 

"  Margery !  "  he  exclaimed  in  astonishment.  He 
took  the  basket  from  her  and  helped  her  up  the 
ascent,  scolding  her  gently.     "  You  shouldn't  have 


220  DIVIDED 

come  —  you  know  you  should  not  have  come  out  in 
the  cold  and  dark  —  it  must  have  been  quite  dark 
when  you  left  home." 

She  nodded  speechless,  grasping  his  arm. 

"  And  in  this  thin  dress  I  Where  is  your  cloak?  " 
Her  shawl  had  been  torn  from  her  shoulders  by 
the  outstretched  boughs  of  the  thick  bush,  and  she  had 
not  felt  conscious  of  her  loss.  To  her  brother's 
question  she  made  no  reply.  They  had  reached  the 
summit  and  she  sat  down  on  a  boulder,  covering  her 
face  with  her  hands  as  she  drew  long,  deep  breaths, 
struggling  with  her  strangled  sobs.  George  stood  by 
her  in  silence,  unable  in  this  moment  of  parting  to 
speak  those  words  of  bald  consolation  which  he  felt 
could  bring  but  hollow  comfort  in  her  sorrow. 

Roona  cropped  at  the  blackened  herbage,  while 
the  first  blinding  shafts  of  light  heralded  the  uprising 
of  the  sun.  When  Margery  spoke  it  was  with 
pauses  between  her  short,  broken  sentences :  "  I  could 
not  sleep  —  George  —  I  put  something  in  a  basket 
—  food  for  you  —  and  waited  till  daylight  —  I 
knew  you  would  take  the  bridle-path  —  it's  shorter." 

"  Margery,  dear,  you  shouldn't  have  attempted 
it." 

She  held  her  head  bent. 

"  It*s  stupid  of  me  —  but  George,  it's  so  hard  to 
let  you  go  I  I've  no  one  but  you,  and  —  I'll  miss  you 
so.  .  .  ,  You  see  we've  never  been  parted,  except 
when  I  was  away  at  school." 

George  nodded;  he  could  not  speak. 


DIVIDED  221 

"  And  I've  got  spoiled,  I  suppose  —  always  having 
you  to  turn  to.  It's  selfish  of  me,  but  "  —  her  voice 
dropped  —  "  God!  how  hard  it  is  to  let  him  go!  " 
she  muttered. 

"Selfish  I  you  I  That's  rot,  Margery,"  George 
said,  thickly. 

A  smile  passed,  like  a  gleam  come  and  gone  in  an 
instant,  across  the  white  face. 

"  I  would  have  been  with  you  at  the  first  bend  — 
I  meant  to  meet  you  there.  I  thought  we  could  have 
climbed  old  World's  View  together  —  as  we  have 
done  so  often  —  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  times,  I 
suppose.  Can't  you  see  us,  George,  two  little  dots 
climbing  up  hand  in  hand  .  .  .  talking,  always  talk- 
ing ...  up  ...  up  ..  .  and  then  two  bigger 
children  —  a  girl  and  boy,  and  a  smaller,  boy  to  be 
helped  up  between  them.  .  .  ." 

"  Don't,  Margery." 

"  Oh,  George,  I  can't  help  being  selfish  —  just 
this  once  .  .  .  Yes,  I  have  suffered,  as  you  know, 
but  I  have  set  my  teeth  and  said :  '  I  will  bear  it 
alone  '  .  .  .  and  I  have  borne  it.  .  .  I  could  bear  it 
because  I  had  you." 

"  Hush,  dear;  God  will  spare  me  to  you." 

"  No,"  she  said  in  cold,  quiet,  despairing  tones. 
"  Why  should  He?  Those  who  are  not  much  missed 
are  the  spared;  those  who  are  the  all-in-all  to  some 
one  are  the  ones  to  go.  Isn't  that  life?  Don't  let  us 
stuff  ourselves  with  lies,  however  sweet.  The  world 
won't  change  for  us,  dear  I  life  is  cruel  —  unbear- 
able!" 


22Z  DIVIDED 

Again  he  stood  silenced  before  her  grief. 

"  I  would  have  been  with  you  at  the  bend, 
George,"  she  continued,  speaking  now  with  a  return 
to  tones  of  simple  explanation,  "  but  I  was  hindered 
by  Thane." 

"What  of  Thane?"  asked  her  brother  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  I  left  Babs  sleeping,"  she  began,  irrelevantly  as 
it  seemed.  "  I  stole  out  of  the  house  down  the  gar- 
den. Crossing  the  bridge  I  got  a  fright  —  a  great, 
black  figure  stood  on  the  bank  opposite,  staring  down 
into  the  bottomless  pool  —  at  first  I  took  it  for  the 
ghost  —  then  I  thought  it  might  be  a  native  —  but 
it  was  Thane." 

"  Oh,  God  I  —  not  Thane !  —  you  did  not  leave 
him  there?"  George  cried  hurriedly. 

"  I  could  not  do  that,  dear.  I  remembered  your 
words :  '  Help  Thane  through.'  ** 

"  Thank  God  for  that,  Margery." 

"  I  went  up  to  him.  .  .  I  begged  of  him  to  come 
with  me  —  last  night  I  had  begged  and  prayed  of 
him  to  come " 

"  He  refused » 


"  He  would  not  ...  he  said,  *  Climb  your  Cal- 
vary alone  —  you  women  enjoy  that  sort  of  thing. 
As  for  me,  I'll  not  see  George  again  if  he  persists  in 
going  off  to  the  Boer  camp,'  so  I  left  him  at  the  first 
bend  in  the  road;  he's  waiting  there." 

"It's  hard  on  us  both,"  Her  brother's  voice 
moved  her. 


DIVIDED  223 

"  You  must  not  let  it  worry  you,  George ;  he'll 
come  round  in  time  to  understand  and  see  that  you 
could  not  have  acted  otherwise." 

"Margery,  it  is  hard  —  how  hard,  you  alone 
know." 

"  I  know,  dear,"  she  interrupted  eagerly.  "  I 
know  just  what  we  are  to  you." 

"To  go  off  —  not  knowing  what  lies  before  on* 

—  is  a  trial  for  any  man ;  but  to  leave  as  I  am  leav- 
ing —  feeling  that  Thane  hates  me  for  going  — 
without  a  word  from  him  to  wish  me  *  Good  luck,'  or 
'  God  speed  *  —  that  —  seems  —  more  —  than  —  I 

—  can  —  bear,"  he  added  slowly. 

"  Thane  loves  you,  dearest."  She  grasped  for 
words  to  send  him  off  comforted  a  little  in  spirit;  for 
words  that  might  carry  consolation  for  him  as  he  rode 
on  his  lonely  way.  "  He  takes  your  going  so  hardly 
just  because  his  love  for  you  is  the  deepest  passion 
that  has  touched  his  big,  stubborn  heart.  His  love 
for  you  is  there,  George  —  that  never  can  be  lost  to 
him.  .  .  Mother  used  to  say  it  would  be  his  salva- 
tion —  you  remember." 

"  Marger\%"  he  said  suddenly,  speaking  more 
hopefully,  "  what  you  say  makes  me  feel  certain  that 
my  going  like  this  —  in  all  this  trouble  and  misery 

—  is  just  to  help  Thane  —  somehow  —  somewhere 

—  to  help  him  to  his  true  self." 

Some  faint  reflection  of  the  inner  joy  the  thought 
brought  to  him  lighted  the  strong,  thoughtful  face, 
immarred  in  its  noble,  manly  beauty  by  any  single 


224  DIVIDED 

line  of  selfish  indulgence  or  mean  desire.  Margery, 
looking  intently  into  those  deep-set,  gentle,  pure  blue 
eyes,  felt  her  heart  die  within  her.  Her  brother,  she 
felt,  had  grown,  even  within  the  last  few  days, 
immeasurably  beyond  the  reach  of  ordinary  sinful 
mortals. 

"  All  is  for  the  best,  dear  ...  we  must  never  for- 
get that  .  .  .  you  will  see  it,  Margery,  and  remem- 
ber my  words." 

The  faintness  of  death  came  upon  her.  Margery 
Brandon  had  suffered  much  and  intensely,  and  was 
doomed  to  yet  more  suffering;  but  it  was  in  this 
moment  of  an  unspeakably-bitter  farewell  that  the 
Crown  of  Sorrow  laid  its  imperishable  touch  upon 
her  —  searing  her  soul,  maddening  her  brain,  tor- 
turing all  the  nobler  elements  of  her  nature. 

Suddenly  she  found  herself  wishing  herself  alone. 
As  though  he  divined  that  ardent  longing,  her 
brother  was  saying: 

"  I  must  be  getting  along  .  .  .  thanks  for  the 
scoff,  old  girl;  it  will  come  in  fine,"  he  was  busily 
transferring  the  contents  of  the  basket  to  his  saddle- 
bag, and  it  was  his  sister's  firm,  capable  hands  that 
now  held  and  patted  the  smooth  coat  of  the  big 
bay. 

"  Babs  made  the  toffee  for  you  last  night," —  her 
lips  were  white,  her  eyes  dull  and  sunken,  but  her 
tones  clear;  "  she  meant  to  give  it  to  you  to-day  — 
so  I  put  it  in." 

"  Give  her  a  kiss  for  It." 


DIVIDED  225 

"  She'll  be  glad  you've  got  it." 

"  And  tell  father  I'll  soon  be  looking  you  up." 

"  I'll  tell  him." 

"And  Thane  —  get  him  to  talk  to  you  ...  it 
will  help  him." 

"  Yes,  I'll  look  after  him  —  after  them  all  — 
Aletta  and  the  farm  work  included  .  .  .  don't  you 
worry." 

"  Well  —  hurry  home,  Margey." 

"  Y-e-s." 

"  You  won't  stay  about  in  the  cold;  promise  me." 

"  I'll  go  at  once." 

Then  there  remained  no  more  to  be  said.  .  .  She 
waved  to  him  as  she  slipped  back  into  the  bush-path, 
the  empty  basket  hanging  on  her  arm,  and  he  raised 
his  right  hand,  holding  aloft  the  short,  thick  sjambok 
he  carried,  in  reply.  Then  the  summit  hid  brother 
from  sister  and  each  descended  the  slope  on  opposite 
sides  of  the  mountain.  Margery  paused  but  once  in 
her  descent,  and  that  was  to  wipe  the  moisture  which, 
despite  the  cold  of  the  morning,  had  gathered  on  her 
brow. 

In  the  moment  of  her  farewell  to  her  brother,  she 
had  cast  her  sorrow  from  her  as  she  might  have  cast 
from  her  presence  some  loathsome,  unclean  thing, 
leaving  her  heart  empty  of  all  else  but  that  last  lov- 
ing service  for  him.  Now  she  reached  out  after  it, 
caught  at  it,  and  hugged  it  to  her  bosom :  she  gloated 
over  it,  looking  in  the  face  of  her  immeasurable  agony 
of  suffering  as  a  mother  might  look  —  with  the  con- 


226  DIVIDED 

centrated  gaze  in  which  anguish  and  joy,  agony  and 
rapture  is  mingled  —  upon  the  face  of  her  dead  in- 
fant. A  feeling  of  desolation  swept  over  her,  and 
she  welcomed  it  with  a  passionate  intensity  that 
numbed  the  sting  of  her  pain.  Anguish  beyond 
power  of  expression  seized  upon  and  took  possession 
of  her,  the  violence  of  which  was  such  that  she  felt 
herself  to  be  unspeakably  degraded  by  the  sensation. 
Before  this  devil  of  overpowering,  unbearable  pain 
she  felt  she  could  not  stand  upright  .  .  .  she  was  on 
her  knees  grovelling  before  an  all-masterful  force. 
She  was  overwhelmed  by  Sorrow's  humiliating  touch 
.  .  .  lost  in  a  dark  abyss  of  despair.  .  .  beaten 
down  .  .  .  trodden  upon  .  .  .  tortured ! 

Some  suffering  may  raise,  but  the  suffering  of  a 
long  and  bitter  and  hopeless  fight  against  the  worst 
blow  that  fate  is  about  to  deal  us  can  but  degrade  as 
that  blow  falls  in  fullest  force  and  severity.  With 
all  the  strength  of  her  vigorous  womanhood  she  re- 
jected as  hideous  the  doctrine  of  the  travailing  and 
groaning  in  pain  of  the  whole  Creation!  She  was 
fierce  in  her  revolt  against  the  tyranny  that  ordained 
suffering  as  the  mate  of  love.  Why  is  love  given  to 
us?  Only  that  we  may  agonize,  her  heart  responded 
bitterly.  Who  gives  us  the  power  to  love?  The 
Father  who  gives  us  the  power  to  agonize.  And 
through  it  all  her  mind  was  sensitively  alive  to,  and 
conscious  of,  that  awful  sense  of  degradation  which 
had  touched  and  mastered  her.  Her  bold,  defiant 
spirit  had  trembled  and  cowered  before  this  merciless 


DIVIDED  227 

demon  of  Pain.  He  had  scourged  her,  and  she  had 
knelt  beseechingly  to  him;  then  she  had  embraced 
him  —  had  grovelled  before  this  all-masterful  force, 
this  dominating  pain,  this  angel  of  darkness,  by- 
name, Suffering. 

Suffering  it  was  that  had  taken  the  comeliness 
from  her  face,  the  light  and  beauty  from  her  eyes,  the 
freshness  and  vigour  from  her  frame !  It  had  robbed 
her  of  her  womanly  graciousness,  her  womanly  rights 
—  the  rights  life  owed  her  as  a  human  being,  as  one 
among  the  mothers  of  men.  It  had  filched  from  her 
in  her  earliest  prime  the  joy  of  living,  had  under- 
mined all  the  nobler  elements  of  her  character,  had 
hardened  and  embittered  her  nature,  and  now, 
finally,  had  degraded  her  soul. 

She  felt  its  rude,  coarse  touch  still  laid  upon  her 
naked  soul,  and  shuddered  and  trembled  as  though 
that  coarse,  defiling  touch  were  laid  upon  her  bared 
flesh,  degrading  and  besmirching  her  womanhood. 

She  agonized  —  but  could  not  reason;  she  could 
but  struggle  in  the  grip  of  her  sensations.  For  to 
her  had  been  allotted  that  most  disastrous  of  all  fac- 
ulties —  the  power  to  feel  intensely. 


XIV 

It  was  the  Sunday  following  George  Brandon's  de- 
parture, and  since  early  morning,  armed  Boers,  in 
larger  or  smaller  parties,  had  been  riding  up  to  the 
doors  of  the  post-house,  calling  for  food  and  drink  on 
their  way  to  join  the  daily  swelling  commando 
camped  at  Louw's  Krantz.  One  party  alone  came 
from  that  direction,  this  being  the  recruiting  sergeant 
and  his  patrol. 

The  indefatigable  Bouwer,  with  an  attempt  at 
geniality,  served  the  long-expected  summons  upon 
the  younger  Brandon.  Thane,  as  a  burgher  of  the 
Republic,  was  to  report  himself  at  the  camp  within 
twenty-four  hours,  in  default  of  which  he  might 
expect  to  be  court-martialled,  tried,  condemned,  and 
shot  as  renegade  and  traitor  to  his  country. 

With  a  flicker  of  his  strong,  brown  hand.  Thane 
tossed  the  summons  disdainfully  in  his  old  comrade's 
face.  Bouwer's  brow  darkened.  "  If  you  were  not 
so  old  a  friend,  Brandon "  he  muttered  angrily. 

"  You  would  do  —  what"?  "  asked  Thane,  insult- 
ingly, loudly. 

The  Boers  from  the  adjacent  stoep  crowded  into 
the  room,  eager  to  witness  the  fray,  ready  to  back 
their  countrymen  against  one  of  the  accursed  blood  of 

228 


DIVIDED  229 

their  hated  foes.  "  Heer!  "  muttered  one  man  to 
his  companion.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  it  would  be  as 
well  for  us  to  shut  this  kereVs  mouth;  he'll  be  in 
league  with  the  enemy  before  all's  said  and  done.'* 

The  barman  trembled,  foreseeing  trouble.  A  new- 
comer to  the  country,  his  knowledge  of  the  taal  was 
limited;  but  he  plainly  perceived  mischief  towards 
the  reckless  Thane  in  the  fierce,  murderous  glances 
bestowed  upon  him  by  the  sullen  Boers.  He  pushed 
his  way  in  between  the  two  men,  apologizing  on  the 
score  that  he  was  wanted  in  the  dining-room. 

There  he  found  Margery  assisting  old  Lisbeth  to 
set  out  a  repast  for  the  latest  arrivals. 

"  For  God's  sake,  miss,"  he  gasped,  "  come  and 
stop  'em,  or  they'll  be  murdering  Mister  Thane." 

Margery,  without  a  word,  moved  swiftly  down 
the  passage  and  pushed  open  the  door  leading  into 
the  public  zit-kamer  and  bar.  An  air  of  dense  blue 
smoke  hung  over  the  apartment,  through  which  she 
perceived  the  two  men  facing  each  other. 

"  You've  dragged  George  into  it  with  your  lies," 
Thane  was  shouting,  **  but  you  don't  come  over  me 
with  these  same !    If  I  go  out  to  fight  it  'ull  be " 

Margery  brushed  against  him,  then  with  a  quick 
movement  of  her  hand  across  her  eyes  was  apologiz- 
ing pleasantly.  The  smoke  had  blinded  her;  she 
really  thought  it  wonderful  how  men  could  sit  and 
talk  and  enjoy  themselves  in  so  stifling  an  atmos- 
phere; she  had  felt  sure  Bouwer  would  prefer  taking 
his  lunch  in  the  private  dining-room;  it  was  laid 


230  DIVIDED 

there,  quite  ready;  would  he  come  and  have  it"? 

Woodward  watched  her  in  amazement;  watched, 
too,  the  transformation  on  the  face  of  the  angry 
Bouwer. 

Flattered  by  her  looks,  her  words,  her  attention, 
the  Boer  —  who,  despite  a  rough  exterior  and  unre- 
fined habits,  inherited  in  part  the  blood  of  the  most 
chivalrous  of  European  nations  —  became  on  the  in- 
stant oblivious  to  Thane's  partly  uttered  threat  of 
joining  the  invading  forces,  intent  only  on  a  ready 
acceptance  of  the  advances  of  the  haughty  daughter 
of  The  Outspan.  Margery  could  be  cold  —  terribly 
cold  —  Bouwer  had  had  humiliating  experience  of 
her  lofty  disdain  of  his  clumsy  wooing.  Never  be- 
fore had  that  gracious,  friendly  charm  of  manner, 
been  extended  to  him.  Inwardly  he  perceived  the 
reason,  but  self-satisfaction  inflated  his  vanity  and  he 
resolved  to  ingratiate  himself  into  her  favour  by  re- 
fusing to  continue  the  quarrel  with  her  hot-headed 
brother.  With  a  word  of  delighted  acceptance  and 
thanks,  he  turned  and  followed  her  from  the  bar. 

The  disappointed  Boers,  with  snarls  and  jeers, 
commented  upon  the  sergeant's  evident  weakness 
where  the  meisjes  were  concerned;  while  Thane,  re- 
alizing his  rashness  in  losing  his  temper  in  such  dan- 
gerous environments,  hastily  sought  seclusion  in  his 
bedroom. 

Through  the  open  window  overlooking  the  garden 
the  face  of  Woodward  presently  appeared. 

"  Come  along,  old  chap;  your  sister  has  sent  word 


DIVIDED 


231 


by  Babs  that  we  shall  find  something  to  eat  laid  out 
on  the  back  stoep." 

"  I  hope  to  heaven  she'll  keep  that  skunk  indoors, 
then,"  Thane  grumbled  as  he  let  himself  into  the 
garden  through  the  window. 

Bouwer,  sunning  himself  in  the  light  of  Margery's 
new  graciousness,  was  very  contentedly  making  a  sub- 
stantial meal  off  goat-flesh,  with  boiled  maize  and 
pumpkin  served  up  as  vegetables,  which  was  the  best 
fare  the  post-house  could  now  supply. 

"  It's  not  often  we  get  such  luxuries  in  camp,  I 
can  assure  you.  Miss  Margery,"  he  said  insinuating- 
ly, allowing  his  bold  glances  to  travel  freely  over 
the  pale  face  with  the  sombre,  burning  eyes,  which 
no  effort  on  her  part  could  lighten  for  more  than  a 
fleeting  second  at  a  time.  He  used  her  Christian 
name  with  accentuated  relish,  realizing  how  this  un- 
heard-of-liberty, impossible  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances, would  sting  to  the  depths  of  her  proud  soul. 

But,  to  Margery,  the  man  before  her  was  but  a 
Thing  come  direct  from  the  camp  which  harboured 
her  brother.  Gently,  but  persistently,  she  waived 
aside  Bouwer's  clumsy  attempts  at  gallantry,  and 
led  the  conversation  back  to  the  original  point. 

"You  left  him  well?" 

"  Oh,  quite  fit,"  with  an  attempt  at  the  free  and 
easy  colloquialisms  of  his  English  acquaintances 
"  down  Pietersberg  way."  "  He  sent  a  bundle  of 
most  tender  messages  —  love,  and  so  forth,"  he 
waved  his  hand,  holding  the  dinner-knife,  in  her 


232  DIVIDED 

direction  with  a  confidential  leer.  "  I'd  like  to  parcel 
them  out  on  my  own;  you  twig,  Miss  Margery*?" 
he  burst  into  a  loud,  hearty  guffaw  —  "  and  why  not 
—  why  not"?  seeing  as  you  know  I  am  a  bachelor 
man  looking  out  for  a  wife." 

With  difficulty  Margery  rounded  her  lips  into  the 
semblance  of  a  smile,  which  encouraged  the  Dutch- 
man into  a  further  confidential  outburst. 

"  You  see,  it's  this  way.  Miss  Margery,"  he  went 
on,  falling  into  a  tone  of  the  friendliest  familiarity. 
"  I  should  have  been  a  wedded  man  long  ere  this  — 
owning  as  I  do  a  splendid  property,  with  some  hun- 
dreds of  head  of  cattle,  and  thousands  of  sheep  and 
goats,  and  a  strongly-built,  well-furnished  house  all 
standing  waiting  ready  for  a  mistress,  but  somehow 
I  have  been  unlucky,  verdoemd  unlucky  I  Well, 
there  was  my  first  love  —  a  boy's  love  you  may 
reckon  it,  and  maybe  it  was  that.  Still,  I  fancied 
her  —  Aletta  —  for  my  wife ;  but  George,  as  we  all 
know,  snatched  her  from  me;  so  she  was  lost  to  me. 
Then  Xante  Jacoba  said :  '  Do  not  take  it  to  heart, 
neef  Petrus,  try  again  with  Johanna.  She  is  a  fine 
maiden ;  better-looking,  sweeter-natured,  softer,  more 
loving  than  her  sister.'  So  I  turned  to  Jo  —  but  there 
again  I  am  forestalled." 

Babs,  who  had  run  into  the  room,  stood  leaning 
both  elbows  on  the  table  with  eyes  intently  watching 
the  speaker.  Now  she  asked  in  her  direct,  challeng- 
ing fashion:  "  What  does  '  forestalled  '  mean*?  " 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!"  laughed  Bouwer;  "you'll  know 


DIVIDED  233 

all  about  it,  little  meisje,  in  a  few  years'  time.  My 
word  I  but  I  feel  half  inclined  to  wait  for  you. 
Would  you  have  me*?  "  he  asked,  jocularly. 

"  I  don't  want  you,  thank  you,"  replied  Babs  dis- 
dainfully, not  understanding  the  question  in  its  en- 
tirety, but  disapproving  of  having  anything  whatever 
in  connection  with  the  Boer.  She  stamped  impa- 
tiently as  she  spoke : 

"  I  came  in  to  ask  when  you  people  are  going  to  let 
George  come  back  from  your  horrid  old  camp,"  she 
said,  hotly. 

"  Those  are  secrets  I  must  not  give  away,"  Bouwer 
replied,  smiling  in  an  irritating  fashion.  "  See  then, 
Babs,  you'll  be  a  handsome  young  meisje  before  very 
long  and  have  heaps  of  sweethearts  ready  to  fight 
each  other  for  you,  if  only  you  keep  on  copying  your 
sister  in  looks."  Babs  stared  at  him,  then  turned  her 
gleaming  eyes  searchingly  on  Margery.  "  Yes,  my 
word!  but  you  two  are  tremendously  alike."  His 
eyes,  as  insolently  familiar  as  his  tones,  travelling 
slowly  from  the  child  to  the  woman,  then  back  from 
the  woman  to  the  child,  caused  Margery's  usually 
expressionless  eyes  to  blaze  and  burn  with  sudden 
fire  beneath  their  lowered  lids. 

"  Sisters  very  frequently  are  alike,  as  you  may 
have  noticed  before,  Mr.  Bouwer,"  she  said  in  tones 
so  dry  and  cold  as  to  attract  even  Babs'  inattentive 
ear.  Then  turning  to  the  child  and  placing  a  covered 
dish  in  her  hands:  "For  Thane,"  she  directed  ab- 
ruptly, and  Babs  thus  dismissed  reluctantly  left  the 
room. 


234  DIVIDED 

"  Well,"  said  the  sergeant,  noisily  pushing  back 
his  chair,  "  I  must  be  off,  sorry  as  I  am  to  leave  such 
pleasant  company;  but  duty,  you  know.  Miss  Mar- 
gery, comes  before  all  else  when  one  is  serving  onze 
land;  especially  in  these  dark  days  when  all  her  sons 
must  arm  and  bestir  themselves  to  defend  her  free- 
dom. But,  of  course,  the  war  will  pass  —  the  war 
will  pass  —  the  land  will  come  back  to  us;  and  then. 
Miss  Margery  —  then,  I  trust,  we  shall  be  allowed 
more  pleasant  hours  of  talk  together." 

His  moist,  limp  hand  clung  to  hers  while  he  stared 
persistently  into  her  face.  She  retained  her  grasp  in 
his,  at  the  same  time  holding  her  head  high ;  a  flicker 
of  wrath,  or  pain,  or  amusement  on  her  curling  lips 
as  she  lightly  avoided  his  gaze.  "  Out  of  coyness," 
his  vanity  suggested,  and  he  considered  his  proper 
attitude  to  be  one  of  immense  empressement. 

"  But  you  won't  forget  my  messages  to  George," 
Margery  counselled  him  in  friendly  tones. 

"How  could  I?"  he  began,  but  she  cut  him 
short. 

"  George  must  be  back  before  long,  otherwise  all 
his  next  season's  crop  will  be  a  complete  failure. 
You're  such  a  good  farmer  you  will  understand,  I 
am  sure.  And  you  have  influence  —  you  are  such  a 
big  man  nowadays,  Mr.  Bouwer.  I  quite  look  to  you 
to  help  George  to  get  back  as  soon  as  he  has  fixed 
up  the  transport  at  the  camp;  to  see  that  van  der 
Merwe  does  not  hold  him  there  too  long." 

"  Anything  I  can  do  in  the  matter,  be  sure  I  shall 


DIVIDED  235 

do  —  for  your  sake,"  returned  the  delighted  Bouwer. 
"  But  you  flatter  me,  indeed  you  do.  Influence  I 
Well,  perhaps  I  have  a  little.  But  depend  upon  it, 
Miss  Margery,  what  I  can  do  I  shall  —  for  your 
sake." 

"  I  shall  not  forget  it  if  you  do,"  Margery  replied 
pointedly,  still  graciously  polite. 

Then  he  was  gone,  and  for  the  rest  of  the 
short  afternoon,  the  latest  arrivals  of  recruits  to  the 
Boer  camp  having  saddled  up  and  ridden  from  the 
post-house  in  the  direction  of  Louw's  Krantz,  a  rest- 
ful quiet  fell  upon  The  Outspan. 

"  I  wonder  when  they  will  let  broetje  come  back," 
said  Babs  for  the  twentieth  time,  as  she  sat  with  out- 
stretched legs  on  the  kaross  spread  alongside  the  shab- 
bily-cushioned but  deep  and  comfortable  wicker 
couch  on  which  Margery  rested  after  the  long  hours 
of  work.  The  rays  of  the  declining  sun  fell  in 
patches  through  the  brown,  sere  leaves  of  the  creep- 
ers twining  up  the  trellis-work  of  the  back  verandah 
where  the  family  were  assembled  to  while  away  the 
last  moments  of  a  Sabbath  which  had  proved  to  this 
wayside  household  the  very  reverse  of  a  Day  of  Rest. 
"  When  do  you  think,  father*?  "  she  persisted,  rais- 
ing her  bright  eyes  from  the  book  of  Bible  pictures 
that  rested  on  her  knees  to  look  into  the  old  man's 
gloomy  face. 

"  Can't  tell,  my  child  —  can't  tell,"  he  returned 
abstractedly,  as  he  pulled  his  short,  grey,  pointed 
beard  through  and  through  his  restless  fingers.    His 


236  DIVIDED 

thoughts  were  with  his  younger  son,  who  must  now 
leave  the  old  homestead;  the  war  was  taking  both  his 
boys  from  him. 

"  Didn't  Bouwer  give  you  news  of  him?  "  asked 
Woodward,  to  whom  Babs  made  her  next  appeal. 

"  That  beast  I  "  cried  the  child  angrily,  while  a 
sound  between  a  growl  and  an  oath  came  from 
Thane. 

"  I  must  go  and  help  Sinclair,"  he  said  presently, 
slowly  lifting  himself  up  from  his  low  seat  on  the 
steps  leading  from  the  stoep  into  the  garden,  and 
knocking  the  ash  out  of  his  pipe;  "  we  must  be  get- 
ting our  things  together." 

"When  do  you  leave *?"  asked  Woodward;  and 
"  About  midnight,"  Thane  answered  laconically  as, 
followed  by  his  father,  he  went  indoors. 

"The  rush  is  really  over,  I  believe,"  said  Mar- 
gery, after  listening  for  further  sound  of  hoof  or 
wheel ;  "  we  shall,  I  hope,  be  left  in  peace  for  the  rest 
of  the  evening." 

"  I  was  thankful  when  Bouwer  and  his  men  went 
off,"  remarked  Woodward.  "  I  feared  at  one  time 
they  had  quite  made  up  their  minds  to  shoot  the  lot 
of  us,  and  bum  down  the  place." 

"  They  won't  do  that  so  long  as  they  consider 
there's  a  chance  left  of  driving  back  the  Irregulars, 
and  holding  the  district." 

"  And  if  they  can't  drive  them  back  —  what 
then?" 

"  WTien  they  recognize  defeat,  they'll  burn  out 


DIVIDED  237 

every   farmstead,   beginning   with  The   Outspan." 

"  —  if  they  can,"  suggested  Woodward. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  some  of  us  will  be  on  the  look 
out." 

Woodward  nodded. 

"  The  Irregulars  are  pushing  their  way  through 
—  bound  direct  for  The  Outspan,  you  may  be  sure." 

"  Then  let  us  hope  the  old  post-house  will  be  left 
to  us." 

"  If  it  gets  burnt  by  those  horrid  Boers,  shall  we 
have  to  go  and  live  at  Top  Farm,  Margery?  "  asked 
Babs,  raising  her  eyes  to  the  far-off  summit  of  the 
mountain. 

"  I  expect  so,  Babs." 

"  But  where  would  George  live*?  Oh,  with  us,  I 
suppose ;  it  would  be  nice  for  some  things ;  I  could  go 
off  to  the  lands  with  him  every  morning."  Then  her 
brow  darkened.  "  I'd  like  to  bum  down  Petrus 
Bouwer's  house,"  she  exclaimed  vindictively;  "  the 
sneak !  " 

"  But  surely  not  Babs !  What  harm  has  he 
done  ?  "  asked  Woodward,  in  pretended  surprise. 

"  He  is  a  sneak,"  she  repeated  firmly.  "  He  pre- 
tends to  like  George,  and  calls  himself  his  oldest 
friend;  yet  I  know  he  would  keep  him  there  at  the 
camp  for  ever,  if  he  could." 

"  Why?  "  Woodward  asked  again. 

"  'Cause  George  married  Aletta,  and  he  wanted 
to  marry  her,  you  see,"  Babs  explained  triumphantly. 

"  You  precocious  child,"  laughed  the  captain. 


238  DIVIDED 

"  And  he  said  something  funny  about  Jo  being  — 
being  —  what  was  that  word,  Margery'?  —  fore — ' 
fore  —  something." 

"  —  forestalled,"  said  Margery,  in  what  Babs 
called  her  "  far  away  "  voice,  as  she  lay  resting  her 
eyes  upon  World's  View. 

"  Such  a  funny  word  I  "  continued  the  child,  ap- 
pealing to  Woodward;  "  and  he  said  it  so  funnily, 
too;  just  the  same  way  he  spoke  when  he  looked  from 
me  to  you  and  said,  '  really  —  tremendously  alike.' 
Why  did  you  get  so  angry,  Margey?  Don't  you 
like  people  to  say  I  am  like  you,  darling?  "  She  lifted 
her  plump  cheek  to  rub  it  caressingly  against  the  pale 
face.  "  Don't  you  like  them  to  think  so?  "  she  mur- 
mured. 

"  Of  course  I  do,  Babsie  dear  .  .  .  But  what 
made  you  think  I  was  angry?  " 

"  Your  voice  —  it  sounded  so  hard,  and  cold,  and 
snappy-like;  I  could  tell  in  a  minute." 

Woodward  laughed.  "  One  has  to  be  careful 
when  you  are  about,  Babs." 

"  Yes,  I  am  pretty  sharp,"  returned  Babs,  com- 
placently. "  Tante  Jacoba  says  it's  wonnerlyk  and  a 
sign  that  I'll  die  young,  or  else  that  I  am  going  to 
have  three  husbands.  But  she's  only  an  ignorant  old 
Boer  woman  and  does  not  know  anything  —  except, 
of  course,  about  the  opzit,  and  secrets  like  that  which 
she  has  learned  from  Oom  Jan.  Still,  she  can  make 
ripping  komfyt  —  so  sugary  and  crisp,  it  melts  in 
your  mouth.    Oh,  I  wish  you  could  taste  it!    But 


DIVIDED  239 

this  horrid  war  I  Margey,  when  will  we  be  able  to 
get  plenty  of  sugar  through,  so  that  you  can  make 
komfyt  again*?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  Babs  —  soon,  I  hope,"  Margery 
answered,  absently,  her  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  gaunt 
mountain-side,  where  the  evening  shadows  came  and 
went,  causing  an  ever-moving  panorama  of  light 
and  shade  to  play  upon  the  background  of  the  rug- 
ged height  over  whose  lofty,  boulder-strewn  top  her 
brother  had  disappeared.  So  obsessed  was  she  by  the 
thought  of  his  terrible  position,  of  his  probable  de- 
tention, of  the  unlikelihood  of  his  possibility  of  re- 
turn until  the  war  had  reached  its  final  conclusion, 
that  she  lost  the  note  of  silence  that  followed  upon 
Babs'  prattle  and  failed  to  notice  the  child  had  run 
indoors. 

With  a  start  she  roused  herself  to  meet  Wood- 
ward thoughtfully  regarding  her  as  he  stood  opposite 
the  couch,  his  back  against  a  verandah  post,  his  hands 
dug  into  the  pockets  of  his  khaki  coat. 

"  I  did  not  notice  Babs  had  slipped  away." 

"  Do  you  know  that  as  you  looked  up  at  the  moun- 
tain you  awed  me?  "  he  said,  speaking  suddenly  as 
though  forced  to  share  with  her  some  all-compelling 
thought  rankling  in  his  mind. 

She  turned  her  eyes  upon  him,  and  for  an  instant 
he  saw  —  or  thought  he  saw  —  in  their  greyish-green 
depths  a  hint  of  sudden  consternation,  of  vivid  emo- 
tion, that  told  a  tale  of  a  sudden,  disquieting  pulsa- 
tion —  a  heart-beat  as  suddenly  suppressed  as  felt. 


240  DIVIDED 

"  Forgive  me  for  my  rude  stare ;  but  —  you " 

He  clutched  at  words  of  explanation.  "  Never  have 
I  seen  so  detached  a  look  on  the  face  of  man  or 
woman  I  It  frightened  me  .  .  .  Where  were  your 
thoughts?  .  .  .  Where  had  your  spirit  flown?  " 

"  Need  you  ask?  " 

As  she  spoke,  she  lifted  herself  from  the  couch,  and 
stood  erect  immediately  before  him,  facing  him  across 
the  narrow  width  of  the  verandah.  Her  arms  were 
lifted  high  above  her  head  as  she  secured  the  loosened 
hairpins  that  held  in  position  the  coils  of  hair  twisted 
into  a  big,  loose  knot  above  the  thickness  of  her 
straight  and  strongly-marked  black  brows  and  square, 
white  forehead.  Standing  thus,  she  faced  him  as 
though  in  a  silent  defiance.  Inwardly  she  experi- 
enced again  a  sudden  return  of  that  unwelcomed, 
half-dormant,  scarcely-perceptible,  yet  unmistakable 
note  of  sound,  or  feeling,  or  emotion  —  of  possibly 
all  these  combined  —  that  once  before  had  struck  so 
sharply  upon  the  senses  underlying  her  swathed  and 
trammelled  womanhood  —  puzzling,  irritating  and 
alarming  her. 

"  No,  I  don't  need  to  ask."  He  had  come  a  step 
nearer,  and  she  noted  the  unusual  pallor  on  the 
bronzed  face,  detected  the  forceful  note  in  the  deep, 
arresting  voice.  "  I  envy  the  man  who  has  it  in  him 
to  call  forth  such  a  wealth  of  thought  and  devotion 
and  love;  that  man  has  no  need  of  anyone's  pity 
,  ,  ,  living,  he  is  never  forgotten " 


DIVIDED  241 

"And  yet  — "  said  Margery,  soothed  by  the 
thought  his  words  suggested,  "  yet,  George  deserves 
sympathy."  She  turned  and  moved  slowly  up  and 
down  the  long,  narrow  stoep,  still  speaking,  her  eyes 
bent,  her  voice  low.  "  His  is  just  one  of  those  count- 
less, inexplicable,  cruel  cases  which  serve  to  bring 
home  to  us  how  fiendish  and  inhumanly-cruel  life  at 
bottom  really  is  .  .  .  Here  was  a  man  to  whom  the 
path  of  duty  was  sacred  .  .  .  yet  such  a  steep, 
thorny  path  opened  out  to  him  .  .  .  such  a  divided 
duty  I  —  his  friends  on  the  one  hand  —  his  country 
on  the  other  .  .  .  He  chose  country,  and  duty  — 
his  high  sense  of  honour  could  not  allow  him  to  do 
otherwise  .  .  .  Yet  it  was  hard,  cruelly  hard  —  for 
him  to  go  against  those  he  loves  so  dearly  —  against 
his  home  —  his  people  .  .  .  We  are  everything  to 
him !  Think,  too  "  —  she  looked  up  in  his  face  with 
eyes  no  longer  veiled  and  dull  —  "  think  how  my 
brother  will  be  misunderstood  by  all  the  world !  — 
even  father  and  Thane  can't  comprehend  or  fathom 
his  motives.  I  —  I  only "  she  broke  off  sud- 
denly; then  added  slowly:    "  I  understand." 

"It  is  only  when  we  attain  the  heights  of  love 
that  we  understand,"  he  said,  meaningly.  Again  his 
tone  and  words  and  looks  soothed  her  restless  pain. 
She  divined  the  intense  sympathy  that  pervaded 
them.  So  strongly  did  this  sense  of  his  sympathy  act 
upon  her  burdened  spirit,  that  it  had  the  power  to 
draw  her  into  an  acquiescence  of  that  friendship  for 
which  he  had  pleaded,  and  which  he  now  assured 
himself  he  had  secured. 


XV 


Babs,  who  had  wandered  down  the  passage  into  the 
smoke-room,  watched  with  absorbed  attention 
Thane's  every  movement,  as  he  stood  by  the  window 
engaged  in  the  task  of  overhauling  and  polishing  up 
his  rifle. 

"  May  I  fill  your  cartridge-belt  and  bandolier, 
Thane?  "  she  presently  inquired. 

He  nodded  in  assent. 

"  Yes,  you  may  as  well,  Babs,"  he  replied,  good- 
naturedly. 

She  climbed  on  the  chair  before  the  deal  table  set 
against  a  corner  of  the  room,  where  on  its  linoleum- 
covered  surface  there  rolled  a  bunch  of  cartridges. 
Belt  in  hand,  she  carefully  filled  each  receptacle  in 
turn,  and  then  applied  herself  to  the  duty  of  filling 
the  bandolier. 

"  I  wish  George  was  here,  that  I  might  fill  his 
too,"  she  said,  plaintively. 

The  tears  rose,  filling  her  jewel-bright  eyes  to 
overflowing,  and  she  wiped  them  away  furtively  and 
patiently  with  the  hem  of  her  brown  holland  overall. 
Thane,  from  under  lowering  brows,  watched  the 
simple,  childish  action  with  a  fierce  deep  pang  of 

242 


DIVIDED  243 

pain.  A  sense  of  fresh  fury  struck  across  the  anger 
ever  smouldering  within  his  implacable,  stubborn 
heart  —  of  fresh  hatred  against  the  Boers  —  the  war 
—  his  brother  —  his  own  unforgiving  temper  .  .  . 

"  You  mustn't  get  low,  Babs;  keep  up  your  pluck, 
little  woman,  or  we'll  be  having  the  old  man  and 
Margery  down  in  the  dumps,"  he  said  kindly. 

She  struggled  for  a  moment  with  her  sorrow. 

"  There's  Woodward  too,  and  old  Lisbeth,"  went 
on  Thane,  encouragingly,  "  all  looking  to  you;  you're 
the  only  one  that  can  bring  a  smile  to  their  long 
faces.'* 

"  I  try  to  talk  so  as  to  make  them  laugh  just  the 
same.  Thane,"  the  child  said,  pathetically;  "but 
sometimes  I  can't  even  be  naughty,  broetje;  there's 
such  an  awful  choking  sort  of  pain  across  here."  She 
raised  her  small,  plump  hand  to  her  chest  realistic- 
ally. 

Thane  nodded  comprehendingly. 

"  George  will  come  back  all  right,  little  one."  He 
forced  himself  to  utter  his  brother's  name  in  his  wish 
to  hearten  the  child.  "  He'll  be  back  safe  enough 
one  of  these  days,  and  then  he'll  praise  you  for  your 
pluck." 

She  brightened  wonderfully. 

"  Oh,  do  you  really  think  he  will,  broetje?  "  ^ 

The  next  moment  she  uttered  a  cry  of  alarm. 

"  Look,  Thane  I  look  there  I  "  she  pointed  through 
the  open  door.  "  Boers  —  Boers  —  hundreds  of 
them  —  riding  up  the  road  I  " 


244  DIVIDED 

Thaae  stepped  quickly  to  the  door  and  peered 
through  the  dim  light  at  a  mounted  troop  of  khaki- 
clad  men  riding  along  the  high-road  in  the  direction 
of  the  post-house. 

As  their  leader  entered  the  yard,  the  barman  came 
running  up  from  the  stables  to  entreat  Thane  to 
hurry  into  hiding;  while  Margery  and  Woodward, 
summoned  by  the  frightened  Babs,  entered  quickly 
from  the  back  premises. 

"What  can  they  be  coming  here  for?"  asked 
Margery,  pressing  her  face  over  her  brother's  shoul- 
der in  order  to  obtain  a  better  view  of  the  party. 
"  Could  George  be  with  them*?  "  "  Are  they  van  der 
Merwe's  lot? "  everybody  was  asking  themselves 
anxiously. 

"  But  they  come  from  the  other  direction,"  in- 
sisted Thane. 

"  Thane,  better  go  down  through  the  garden  and 
keep  along  the  river,  out  of  sight,  till  they  leave," 
Margery  counselled,  anxiously.  "  Do  persuade  him, 
Captain  Woodward." 

But:  "  Wait  a  minute,"  replied  Thane  obstinate- 
ly, in  reply  to  all  entreaties  and  suggestions.  "  Wait 
a  minute,  Sinclair,  man  —  don't  you  get  chicken- 
hearted  .  .  .  it's  quite  safe  .  .  .  it's  not  us  they 
are  after." 

"  Oh,  Thane,  haven't  they  come  to  carry  you  off 
to  fight?  "  asked  Babs,  trembling  between  fear  and 
excitement. 

"Not  they,  Babsie  —  don't  you  get  frightening 


DIVIDED  245 

yourself;  it's  only  food  and  drink  they'll  be  want- 
ing." His  tones  changed  suddenly:  "I  say  I  — 
they  re  not  Boers  I  " 

"  Not  Boers!  "  and  "  Not  Boers!  "  echoed  every- 
one. Then :  "  I'm  off  to  make  sure  of  that,  my  boy,"' 
came  from  old  Brandon,  as  he  started  off  on  a  bee- 
line  course  for  the  stables. 

The  four  men  rushed  from  the  room.  Down  the 
steps  leading  from  the  verandah,  across  the  front 
yard  that  stretched  to  the  stables,  they  hurried. 
"Not  Boers!  Are  you  shure^  Mister  Thane?"  the 
barman  cautiously  inquired. 

"  Look  for  yourself  at  that  leader  —  there.  Ever 
see  a  Boer  so  wiry  and  alert,  or  one  who  sits  a  horse 
like  that  chap?  " 

"  I  believe  they  are  a  squad  of  the  Bushmen !  Yes, 
I  recognize  some  of  my  old  chums,"  exclaimed 
Woodward,  in  a  tone  of  immense  relief;  and  *'  Hur- 
rah !  Heaven  be  praised !  "  shouted  Sinclair,  feeling 
considerably  safer  than  he  had  done  for  the  past 
twenty-four  hours. 

"Hark!  That's  Sinclair  shouting!  .  .  .  it's  all 
right,  then,"  cried  Babs,  who  on  the  stoep  had  not 
been  able  in  her  excitement  to  refrain  from  jumping 
up  and  down,  torn  between  expectancy  and  hope. 
Loosening  her  hand  from  Margery's  clasp,  she 
bounded  down  the  steps,  and  ran  to  meet  the  ad- 
vancing party,  now  conversing  pleasantly  together, 
while  the  latter  followed  more  slowly. 

"  Oh,  Thane !     Thane !  then  you  won't  have  to 


246  DIVIDED 

go?  "  Babs  called  aloud  joyfully,  throwing  her  small 
person  upon  him  and  clasping  her  arms  about  his 
body. 

The  Australian  leader  —  a  sparely-built  man,  of 
iron  nerves  and  reckless  temperament  —  stopped  in 
his  talk  to  glance  with  keen,  quick,  ready  sympathy 
at  the  spectacle  of  the  child's  wildly-intense  delight, 
and  raised  his  cap  deferentially  in  response  to  Mar- 
gery's words  of  welcome. 

Then,  still  bareheaded,  he  mounted  the  steps  of 
the  verandah,  and  turning  to  face  his  audience  pro- 
claimed in  sharp,  clear  accents  The  Outspan  as  hav- 
ing changed  hands  —  as  having  passed  from  Boer  to 
Briton, 


BOOK  THREE 


I 


Several  months  had  elapsed  since  the  morning  on 
which  George  Brandon  had  climbed  World's  View- 
to  join  the  camp  at  Louw's  Krantz,  and  The  Out- 
span  had  not  seen  his  familiar  face  and  form  since 
that  day. 

Summer  now  lay  upon  the  land,  and  the  veldt- 
world,  in  all  its  radiant  beauty,  glowed  exultantly 
—  bursting  into  bud  and  blossom  and  hurrying  re- 
lentlessly towards  fruit-bearing  and  maturity  —  be- 
neath the  burning  kisses  of  its  lover  and  lord,  as 
some  radiant  bride  might  glow  and  exult  —  budding 
and  blossoming  unconsciously  yet  surely  by  the  force 
of  Nature's  imseen  but  inexorable  contrivance  to- 
wards the  prime  object  of  her  creation  —  beneath 
the  passionate  ardour  and  intensity  of  her  lover  and 
mate. 

Van  der  Merwe  and  other  leaders  of  the  com- 
mando, gathering  daily  in  numbers  and  strength  at 
the  Boer  camp,  had  warmly  welcomed  the  young 
English  Transvaaler  into  their  ranks,  and  the  duties 
apportioned  him  were,  as  the  ^redikant  had  prom- 
ised, strictly  those  appertaining  to  the  department  of 
the  commissariat,  the  transport,  and  remount.  At 
these  he  worked  unflaggingly  throughout  the  follow- 
ing days,  anxious  to  get  all  in  order  for  the  sortie 

249 


250  DIVIDED 

upon  the  border  camps  of  the  Irregulars  on  which 
van  der  Merwe  had  set  his  mind.  This  task  com- 
pleted, and  the  commando  started  on  the  undertak- 
ing, his  work  would  be  over,  and  his  return  to  The 
Outspan  unopposed. 

But  the  Sunday  well  over,  at  midnight  there  arose 
a  great  stir  throughout  the  camp.  A  scout  had  ridden 
in  with  the  unwelcome  and  alarming  intelligence 
that  the  enemy,  from  an  unexpected  quarter,  had 
crossed  the  trackless  veldt  and  were  close  upon  them. 
No  later  than  sunset  they  had  taken  possession  of  the 
post-house,  and  now  rested  there,  strongly  en- 
trenched, waiting  only  the  bringing  up  of  reinforce- 
ments before  making  a  raid  upon  the  camp  at  Louw 
Krantz. 

A  council  of  war  had  been  hastily  convened,  which 
led  to  a  general  stampede  of  the  undisciplined  Boers 
—  whose  weakness  throughout  the  conflict  lay  in 
their  refusal  to  recognize,  or  submit  to,  the  com- 
mands of  their  superior  officers  —  to  a  stronghold 
further  north.  George  Brandon  found  himself  swept 
along  with  the  rest.  Once  having  joined  their  ranks 
and  become  cognizant  of  their  new  camping-ground, 
he  recognized  the  futility  of  requesting  for  leave  to 
return,  or  endeavouring  to  make  his  escape.  Many 
among  the  Boers  looked  upon  him  with  suspicion, 
ready  to  shoot  him  should  he  attempt  return  to  his 
old  home  at  the  present  critical  juncture  of  affairs; 
while  the  leaders,  also,  were  too  wary  to  allow  any 
man  of  the  commando  to  fall  by  mischance  into  the 
enemy's  hand. 


DIVIDED  251 

"  But,  of  course,  we  all  know  that  you  would  not 
give  away  our  plans,  nor  let  them  guess  the  locality 
of  our  new  camp,"  van  der  Merwe  assured  him  sym- 
pathetically. "  Still,  it  would  be  awkward  for  you 
to  go  back  just  now.  The  Bushmen  would  certainly 
try  their  best  to  worm  out  useful  information,  and 
did  you  refuse  to  give  this  they  might  shoot  you  as  a 
spy;  they  stick  at  nothing  —  so  we  hear." 

To  these  repeated  assurances  George  had  to  listen 
in  silence,  feeling  there  was  a  certain  amount  of  truth 
in  the  'predikanf  s  words,  and  that  in  any  case  to  re- 
turn was,  at  the  present  moment,  an  impossibility. 
So  as  the  days  passed  into  weeks,  and  the  weeks  rolled 
into  months,  he  no  longer  urged  his  request,  but  con- 
tented himself  as  best  he  could  with  the  knowledge 
that  his  old  home  would  remain  safe  under  military 
protection.  Entrenched  as  it  was  by  the  invading 
forces,  the  Boers  would  never  attempt  to  regain  pos- 
session of  The  Outspan. 

During  these  months  of  absence,  of  wanderings 
over  the  wide,  trackless  veldt,  he  had  heard  from 
time  to  time,  through  the  agency  of  van  der  Merwe's 
hosts  of  scouts  and  spies,  news  of  Aletta  and  of  the 
dwellers  at  The  Outspan,  and  knew  that  with  these 
loved  ones  all  had  gone  well.  His  farm  interests, 
too,  had  flourished ;  the  crops  were  well  advanced  and 
promising,  so  van  der  Merwe  assured  him,  adding 
that  the  Lord  had  blessed  and  prospered  him  so  that 
his  flocks  and  herds  had  not  suffered  from  footrot  or 
rinderpest ;  but  that,  on  the  contrary,  they  had  multi- 


252  DIVIDED 

plied  and  increased,  according  to  the  promises  of  the 
Almighty  to  the  man  who  is  faithful  in  the  service 
of  his  God  and  his  country. 

In  this  manner  the  months  had  slipped  by  while 
a  guerilla  warfare,  bloodless  for  the  most  part,  had 
been  waged  at  intervals  between  the  retreating  Boers 
and  the  indefatigable  Irregulars.  There  were  ru- 
mors in  the  air  of  a  conference  down  south  to  arrange 
terms  of  peace.  The  Boers,  heartened  by  these  ru- 
mors, held  on  with  grim  tenacity.  Sick  of  war  and 
longing  for  peace,  they  yet  retained  much  of  their 
old  tactical  vigour.  "  When  Peace  comes,  my  son, 
we  will  be  found  still  holding  our  rifles  in  our  hands," 
the  tough  old  predikant  was  wont  to  assure  George. 

Like  many  another  Transvaaler,  the  young  man 
prayed  that  it  might  come  soon  to  ease  the  land  of 
the  burden  beneath  which  it  groaned.  He  had  done 
his  work,  had  shared  the  rough  lot  of  his  comrades- 
in-arms,  had  spent  himself  freely  in  the  service  of  his 
country  and,  since  he  had  shed  the  blood  of  no  man, 
he  remained  content,  awaiting  only  the  proclamation 
of  peace. 

Continually  the  thought  of  Thane  weighed  heav- 
ily on  his  heart.  Aletta  had  sent  word  of  his  broth- 
er's fierce,  Implacable  anger;  of  his  unappeased  out- 
pouring of  fury  against  the  Boers;  against  himself, 
against  her  sister.  He  had  hardened  his  heart  against 
Jo  and,  now  that  he  had  wrought  his  devil's  work 
upon  her,  absolutely  refused  to  look  upon  her  face 
or  send  the  slightest  message  In  response  to  her  fran- 


DIVIDED  253 

tic  appeals.  Even  Margery,  touched  by  the  hard 
trouble  that  had  fallen  upon  her,  had  appealed  to 
her  brother,  but  always  unsuccessfully.  The  Out- 
span  saw  him  but  seldom;  he  was  in  every  scrap; 
fighting,  so  report  said,  like  a  very  devil  incarnate 
alongside  the  foremost,  fiercest  and  most  daring  spirit 
among  the  army  of  the  daring  and  fiery-spirited 
Irregulars. 

This  news  it  was  that  weighed  most  persistently 
upon  George  Brandon's  heart  and  brain  and  spirit. 
Supposing  it  were  true  —  if  Thane  had  indeed 
quitted  the  old  home  and  thrown  in  his  lot  with  the 
most  persistent  of  the  Irregular  forces  —  the  Bush- 
men —  who  were  daily  and  nightly  pressing  in 
deadly  earnest  upon  the  retreating  Boers  —  would 
the  future  hold  the  hour  in  which  he  and  his  brother 
might  possibly  stand  face  to  face  in  deadly  conflict? 
The  bare  thought  of  so  hideous  a  situation,  so  dread- 
ful a  catastrophe,  was  too  unbearable  to  be  enter- 
tained or  dwelt  upon;  nevertheless,  it  would  start 
up  in  his  quiet  moments,  facing  him  insistently  in 
all  its  grim,  naked,  horrible  reality. 

One  warm,  languorous  evening  he  lay  under  the 
wagons  drawn  up,  as  was  the  usual  custom  when  in 
camp,  to  form  a  rough  laager  in  case  of  unexpected 
attack.  As  he  smoked,  his  mind  dwelt  with  the  old 
insistence,  the  old  longing,  upon  his  brother.  How 
would  it  be  between  them  when  he  returned'?  Would 
Thane  ever  forgive  his  part  in  the  war*?  Could  even 
the  long  years  of  the  future  stretching  before  them 


254  DIVIDED 

ever  wipe  away  the  knowledge  that  they  had  served 
in  hostile  camps ^  Would  their  children  tell  the  tale 
to  one  another,  so  breeding  and  fostering  the  ill-will 
and  the  hate,  the  bitterness  and  the  unforgiveness, 
between  Thane's  descendants  and  his"?  His  thoughts 
wandered  further.  Would  he  leave  behind  him  a 
child  to  bear  his  name,  to  inherit  his  shame  —  since 
in  many  quarters  shame  would  certainly  attach  to  his 
action  in  joining  the  army  of  the  Republic?  The 
children  Aletta  had  borne  him  had  died  in  infancy, 
but  there  had  been  a  prospect  of  another  little  one  — 
so  Tante  Jacoba  had  said.  Then  his  thoughts 
returning  to  his  brother,  he  recalled  Jo  and  her  un- 
reasoning, headstrong  passion  for  him.  Well  would 
it  have  been  for  the  Boer  girl  had  this  cruel  civil 
strife  been  avoided,  so  casting  no  stumbling-block 
across  the  path  of  her  ill-starred  passion.  With  her 
forceful  love  for  Thane  consummated  by  their  union 
as  man  and  wife,  her  strong  affection  would  have 
drawn  him  closely  to  herself;  would  have  softened 
and  influenced  his  harder  nature ;  would  have  helped 
him  against  his  own  hot  temper,  his  often  ungovern- 
able moods.  They  would  have  been  an  ideally  happy 
couple  .  .  .  But  it  was  not  to  be  .  .  ,  Aletta's 
words  returned  to  him.  "  Poor  Jo  I  .  .  .  another 
woman's  life  ruined  by  this  cruel  war  .  .  .  another 
woman  to  suffer  with  the  sufferings  of  the  mother- 
land." 

The  Boers  had  gradually  collected  around  the 
wagons.    They  sat  on  the  ground,  their  pipes  only 


DIVIDED  255 

half-hidden  in  the  palms  of  their  hairy,  roughened 
hands  as  in  harsh  tones  they  slowly  and  gruffly 
hummed  their  tuneless  hymns.  George  recollected 
it  was  Sunday.  He  lay  upon  his  outspread  mackin- 
tosh, looking  out  over  the  great  dark  void  of  the  night 
stretching  before  him  in  all  its  solemn  immensity 
while  he  dreamed  and  listened,  now  to  that  gruff,  im- 
inspiring,  unmelodious  chanting,  then  to  the  eager, 
fervent,  burning  words  of  van  der  Merwe  as  the  un- 
daunted, quick-witted  predikant  expounded  the 
Word  to  his  hearers,  choosing  that  Word  strictly  in 
accordance  as  they  were  able  to  hear  it;  chiefly,  it 
seemed,  in  taking  the  words  of  his  text  as  applicable 
in  their  entirety  solely  to  themselves  as  a  people  God- 
fearing and  God-guided  to  whom  would  certainly  be 
granted  in  the  long  run  a  sure  and  decisive  victory 
over  their  enemies  —  so  said  the  Book;  and  the  man 
among  them  who  could  doubt  the  inference  and  the 
assurance  to  be  drawn  from  this  particular  text  of  the 
Book  was  less  than  an  atheist  and  an  infidel  I  .  .  . 

But  now  he  was  uttering  an  impassioned  extem- 
pore prayer :  "  Our  fathers  served  Thee,  and  Thou 
didst  fight  for  them  and  didst  overthrow  their  ene- 
mies .  .  .  and  Thou  gavest  them  this  fair  land  — 
our  beloved  country  (Onze  land!  onze  land!  inter- 
polated the  Boers,  ardently —  fervently)  .  .  . 
Yea,  Lord,  and  Thou  wilt  never  suffer  it  pass  from 
us  and  from  our  children ;  nor  allow  it  to  fall  imder 
the  dominion  of  strangers  (Nooit!  Nooit!  groaned 
the  Boers)  .  .  .  Thou  wilt  give  us  the  victory  if  we 


256  DIVIDED 

keep  together  and  fight  like  men  .  .  .  (J  a!  J  a! 
shrilled  the  chorus  of  voices)   .  .  ." 

Long  after  the  service  was  concluded  and  quiet 
had  fallen  upon  the  sleeping  camp,  George  still  lay 
on  his  side  gazing  out  upon  the  silver-grey  radiance 
that  fell  across  the  darkness  of  the  night.  Stretched 
in  slumber  the  veldt-world  rested  hushed  and  motion- 
less around  him.  Bright  and  early  the  Boers  were  to 
be  up  and  away,  traversing  its  immensity;  seeking  to 
ambush  their  enemies,  to  retard  their  advance,  and  so 
to  harass  and  hamper  them  that  when  peace  was  pro- 
claimed these  dauntless  sons  of  the  Transvaal  back- 
veldt  would  still  be  found  as  van  der  Merwe  had 
said,  "  a  free  people  and  unconquered." 


II 


Xante  Jacoba  sat  tightly  wedged  within  the  un- 
compromising embrace  of  the  capacious  wooden  seat 
of  primitive,  homely  make:  part  arm-chair,  part 
sofa,  designed  originally  with  diabolical  ingenuity 
to  hold  two  persons  —  opzitte  evidently  —  but  now 
claimed  by  the  gross  and  overblown  Boer  vrouw  for 
her  individual  requirements  and  held  by  the  rest  of 
the  members  of  the  family  as  sacred  to  her  person. 

The  arm-chair,  occupying  its  usual  summer  posi- 
tion, stood  in  the  corner  nearest  the  window  over- 
looking the  stoep  and  cart-track  that  led  to  the  home- 
stead of  du  Bruyn's  Rust.  In  the  winter  it  invaria- 
bly snuggled  as  closely  as  possible  to  the  open  fire- 
place, and  a  box-footstool,  heated  by  hot  bricks 
placed  within  its  interior,  stood  before  it  as  a  rest 
for  the  Xante's  enormous  lower  limbs. 

Xhis  footstool,  minus  the  heating  apparatus,  now 
groaned  beneath  its  usual  heavy  burden  as  Xante 
Jacoba,  leaning  well  forward,  gazed  peeringly  up 
and  down  the  blank  road  lying  silent  and  solitary  be- 
neath the  sweltering  rays  of  the  afternoon  sunlight. 
Xhen,  with  an  ominous  shake  of  her  head,  and  a 
slightly  discontented  frown  on  her  heavy,  expres- 

257 


258  DIVIDED 

sionless  brow,  she  turned  to  eye  with  direct,  searching 
gaze  the  face  of  her  younger  daughter.  Johanna,  un- 
disturbed by  the  look,  continued  to  snip  and  sew  dili- 
gently at  sundry  small,  soft  garments  heaped  to- 
gether in  a  basket  that  stood  on  the  table  before  her. 

"D?>  slechte!  Die  verdoemd  schelm!''  cried 
Xante  Jacoba,  in  a  shrill,  heated  voice,  taking  up  the 
thread  of  her  late  tirade  of  abuse  against  men  in  gen- 
eral and  Thane  Brandon  in  particular,  "  to  cause  us 
to  be  shut  up  here  as  prisoners;  unable  even  to  step 
a  foot  from  off  the  farm;  yet  never  so  much  as  to 
come  himself  near  you  —  his  bruid!  Dear  Lord, 
never  yet  have  I  known  or  heard  of  such  an  opzit!  " 

*'  Thane  can't  help  what  the  Irregulars  do.  Ma," 
replied  Johanna  calmly,  seeing  her  mother  evidently 
expected  some  reply  from  her.  "  It's  the  Austra- 
lian commandant  —  the  ofRcer-in-charge  —  who  has 
given  orders  that  the  Boer  families  are  not  to  be 
allowed  off  their  farms." 

"  Their  men  are  on  all  sides  of  us,"  grumbled  her 
mother.  "  Don't  I  know  it?  Not  even  a  mouse  — 
let  alone  your  poor  father  living  out  there  among 
the  wild  creatures  —  can  so  much  as  creep  through 
on  to  the  farm,  not  even  of  a  night." 

"  Blame  the  Australian,  not  Thane,"  remarked  Jo- 
hanna. 

Her  words  kindled  afresh  the  flame  of  a  further 
grievance. 

"  There  you  go,  Johanna  I  "  snapped  the  old  wom- 
an crossly,  "  sticking  up  for  that  fine  sweetheart  of 


DIVIDED  259 

yours.  Beware,  my  girl,  of  Thane  Brandon  in  his 
present  temper  of  mind  I  He's  not  the  chap  he  was 
—  not  since  George  went  off.  ^och!  ^ochl  I  should 
like  to  put  a  bullet  through  that  old  van  der  Merwe  I 
If  only  he  were  not  a  preacher  of  the  Lord's  Word ! 
If  only  he  were  as  other  men,  wouldn't  I  scratch  out 
his  eyes  for  him  I    l^och!  T!och!  " 

Johanna's  lip  curled. 

"  Why  do  you  tell  me  to  beware  of  Thane?  "  she 
asked,  dryly.  "  Have  you  not  just  been  complaining 
that  he  never  comes  here*?  And  I  am  a  prisoner  I 
.  .  .  Can  I,  then,  see  him  to  take  harm  of  him*?  " 

"  You  have  already  seen  too  much  of  the  godless 
sckepsel"  Tante  Jacoba  snorted  significantly.  "  To 
worm  news  out  of  you  he'd  betray  you  as  vilely  as 
ever  Judas  Iscariot  betrayed  our  blessed  Lord." 

Johanna's  black  eyes  flashed  as  she  answered  in  a 
tone  of  sharp  remonstrance : 

"  Ma,  I'll  not  have  such  things  said  of  Thane." 

"  Go  your  own  way;  go  your  own  way  I  "  returned 
her  mother,  coarsely.  "  You'll  do  as  you  please;  you 
are  so  over-wise  —  like  all  the  maidens  of  the  present 
day  who  think  they  know  more  than  the  mothers  who 
bore  them.  Yet,  mark  my  words,  girl,  it  will  be  to 
the  mothers  they'll  come  running  when  they  lose  their 
slimness.  I'ock,  then  I  to  think  what's  falling  upon 
our  land  and  upon  our  people  I  But,  there !  it's  the 
will  of  the  dear  Lord,  and  we  must  just  sit  still  under 
the  punishment  He  is  sending  upon  our  land  and 
upon  our  people.  But  we  are  being  beaten  with 
many  stripes!    'T'ockJ  ^och!  " 


26o  DIVIDED 

Tante  Jacoba  fetched  up  an  immense  sigh  that  dis- 
turbed the  few  million  of  flies  crawling  on  the  win- 
dow-panes and  blackening  the  walls  and  the  white- 
washed ceiling  of  the  zit-kamer,  as  she  resignedly 
folded  together  a  pair  of  enormously-fat,  red-brown 
hands. 

"  It  won't  be  to  you,  Ma,  that  I'll  run,"  said  Jo- 
hanna with  a  flicker  of  a  smile  in  the  dimpled  corners 
of  her  red  lips.  "  If  ever  that  sort  of  help  is  needed 
for  me  it  will  be  Aletta  I'll  turn  to." 

"  Heerl "  Tante  Jacoba  started  in  real  surprise, 
while  her  beady  blue  eyes  twinkled  in  astonishment 
upon  her  smiling  daughter.  "  So  that's  what  you  and 
Letty  have  been  putting  your  heads  together 
about"?  "  Again  she  surveyed  her  daughter  with  an 
intent  and  searching  but  evidently  unsatisfactory 
scrutiny;  for  she  continued,  questioningly :  "  What  is 
at  the  bottom  of  it  all?  What  are  you  two  duivels 
planning?    Come,  tell  your  old  mother,  my  girl." 

But  Johanna  shook  her  head,  perversely. 

"It's  Aletta's  plan.  Ma;  I  can  say  nothing;  you 
must  get  out  of  her  what  you  can." 

"  Soh  —  "  murmured  Tante  Jacoba  consideringly, 
"  Soh  —  Letty's  very  obstinate  at  times  —  very  try- 
ing; she  led  that  poor  fellow  of  hers  a  fine  dance  of 
late,  just  because  the  good  fellow  was  too  much  of  a 
gentleman  to  take  the  sjambok  to  her.  But  I  told 
him  —  just  in  order  to  send  him  off  heartened  up  and 
inclined  to  come  back  quick  —  that  there  was  a  pros- 
pect of  another  little  one " 


DIVIDED  261 

"  You  told  George  that?  "  interrupted  her  daugh- 
ter in  astonishment. 

"  Ja  .  ,  .  Jal  and  why  not?  I  thought  so,  hon- 
estly; I  still  think  so,"  she  eyed  her  daughter  inter- 
rogatively. 

"  Maybe,"  Johanna  replied,  shortly.  "  But  you 
need  not  tell  Margery  —  not  just  yet,"  she  added. 

"  Soh  —  well,  anyhow  it's  a  good  arrangement; 
Letty  must  give  George  a  son,  for  there's  the  farm  — 
it  can  surely  never  be  the  will  of  the  Lord  that  the 
place  should  go  to  that  godless  Thane's  descendants," 
Xante  Jacoba  observed  with  pious  unction,  yet  keep- 
ing a  shrewd  eye  to  the  main  issue.  "  So  let  us  pray, 
since  a  babe  is  to  come,  that  it  will  be  a  man  child." 

"  For  that  I  care  not,"  Johanna  asserted,  indiffer- 
ently. 

"Well,  so  long  as  a  child  born  to  Greorge  and 
Letty  inherits  the  farm  —  all  the  same,  my  girl,  it 
will  be  a  scandal  for  you.  Believe  your  old  mother, 
who  knows  the  men :  child,  or  no  child.  Thane  Bran- 
don will  never  take  you  as  wife  before  the  kerk  — 
never  put  the  ring  on  your  finger;  your  chance  with 
that  hot-tempered  schepsel  is  past  and  over.  This 
business  of  the  war  —  and  then  his  brother's  going  to 
join  our  burghers  .  .  .  i4r^.' that  did  the  mischief !  " 

"  And  who  have  I  to  thank  for  that?  "  exclaimed 
Johanna,  with  a  flash  of  anger  shooting  across  her 
wild,  dark  eyes.  "  Wasn't  it  Aletta  who  egged  her 
own  man  into  going,  although,  as  I  told  her.  Thane 
had  sworn  never  to  marry  me  if  once  George  joined 


262  DIVIDED 

the  commando?  Yet  she  had  no  thought  for  me,  no 
heart  for  my  trouble,  or  for  the  trouble  down  at  The 
Outspan  —  but  drove  him  on,  embittering  all  his 
people  against  us.  Still,  for  all  that,  the  day  is  yet 
to  dawn  on  which  Thane  will  certainly  make  me  his 
wife." 

"  Then  why  does  he  not  come  and  see  you,  as  an 
oprecht  young  man  would  do"?  "  persisted  her  mother 
testily;  and  to  this  query  Johanna  had  but  one 
reply:  "The  Australian  commandant.  Ma;  he 
won't  allow  it." 

"  ^och!  l^och!  I  don't  know  what  the  young  men 
and  maidens  are  coming  to,  nowadays,"  complained 
the  old  vrouw;  and  then,  impelled  by  a  sudden  dry- 
ness to  remember  the  hour,  she  called  in  stentorian 
tones  to  the  kaffir-girl  to  bring  in  the  coffee. 

Through  the  open  doorway  Johanna  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  approach  of  a  big,  white  umbrella, 
green-lined  and  carried  by  a  white-robed  figure,  mov- 
ing with  a  steady  swing  along  the  hard,  white  track. 
Instantly  she  covered  up  her  work,  then  sped  down 
the  pathway  to  meet  her  friend. 

"  Did  Thane  send  you?  "  were  her  first  words. 

"  No,"  Margery  replied,  lowering  the  big  um- 
brella. 

"  Not  even  a  message?  "  implored  Johanna  hum- 
bly. 

Margery  shook  her  head.     "  No  —  no  message." 

"  When  will  he  grow  human  again?  When  will 
he  begin  to  think  of  me  —  of  my  need?  "  Johanna 
burst  forth  with  vehemence. 


DIVIDED  263 

"  George  has  been  gone  six  months  to-day,  Jo," 
Margery  said,  ignoring  the  girl's  impassioned  out- 
cry. 

"  You  mean  —  not  till  George  comes  back  —  that, 
until  then,  you  won't  raise  your  voice  to  help  me 
with  Thane?  Heer!  Margery  Brandon,  are  you 
human*?  —  are  you  a  woman?  —  consider  my  posi- 
tion. Am  I  to  remain  in  suspense  for  two  —  three 
—  six  months  longer?  " 

"  That  means  George  isn't  to  be  allowed  to  come 
back  for  another  six  months,"  Margery  said  quickly, 
a  strain  of  fierceness  creeping  into  her  tones. 

Each  girl  was  fighting  for  the  man  dearest  to  her 
heart,  the  man  each  in  her  own  way  fiercely  desired 
to  have  or  to  serve.  Johanna,  Margery  recognized, 
was  cognizant  of  much  that  was  taking  place  —  of 
Aletta's  plans  for  George,  of  her  intrigues  carried  on 
with  van  der  Merwe  through  the  agency  of  Bouwer ; 
while,  on  the  other  hand,  Johanna  felt  convinced 
that  Margery  was  the  only  one  who  could  success- 
fully influence  Thane  on  her  behalf. 

"  Heer  J  how  can  I  know  when  George  will  be 
back?  "  she  asked  in  softer  tones,  "  don't  blame  me, 
Margery,  for  what  our  people  do.  You  are  as  un- 
reasonable as  Thane." 

"  You  know,"  Margery  persisted,  inflexibly. 
"  What  Aletta  does,  you  know  and  just  how  often 
she  sees  Bouwer." 

Johanna  started  back. 

"  Bouwer  —  I  "  she  repeated  feebly. 


264  DIVIDED 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  give  away  her  secrets,"  pur- 
sued Margery,  relentlessly.  "  But  the  thing  I  do 
ask  and  expect  of  you,  Jo,  is  to  keep  her  from  seeing 
Bouwer;  from  sending  messages  to  old  van  der 
Merwe  to  keep  George  —  and  to  keep  George  —  and 
to  keep  George !  .  .  .  "  her  stem,  severe  glance,  her 
low,  intense  tones,  bore  abundant  testimony  to  the 
wave  of  anger  surging  and  swelling  within  the  depths 
of  her  storm-tossed  heart.  "  You  stop  it,  Jo,"  she 
added  sharply;  "  you  see  to  it  that  she  sees  no  one 
from  the  commando,  that  she  gets  no  chance  to  carry 
on  her  devilish  work  of  preventing  her  husband  from 
returning  to  his  home;  you  do  this  for  me,  Jo,  then 
I'll  see  that  Thane  marries  you  —  when  George  is 
back.    But  not  till  George  is  safely  back." 

Johanna  shrilled  angrily : 

"  But  you  are  hard  as  a  stone  I  Of  course  I  shall 
do  my  best  to  stop  Aletta,  if,  as  you  say,  she  sends 
messages  to  van  der  Merwe  to  keep  George.  Yet, 
indeed,  this  cannot  bring  George  back;  it  is  the  war 
—  this  cursed  war  which  seems  as  though  it  would 
never  end  —  that  keeps  him  from  us,  from  his  home, 
from  the  wife  who  loves  him,  even  though  you 
credit  her  as  false  to  him.  No,  Margery,  your  heart 
is  set  against  helping  me  with  Thane;  that  I  see 
plainly,  and  so  I  shall  have  to  try  to  help  myself.  I 
will  make  a  plan  to  win  him  back  —  you  shall  see. 
Now  let  us  go  indoors,  for  Ma  is  calling  to  you  to 
come  and  talk  with  her." 

"My  faith,  Margery,"  grunted  Tante  Jacoba, 


DIVIDED  265 

who  was  busy  drinking  coffee  sweetened  with  honey, 
which  invariably  tried  her  placid  temper.  "  Can't 
those  people  down  south  arrange  matters'?  Are  they 
going  to  sit  talking  and  talking  till  we  backveldt 
Boers  are  stamped  out"?  Is  England  going  to  grind 
our  people  into  dust,  and  then  scatter  us  over  the 
veldt  like  the  chaff  which  the  wind  scattereth  over 
the  face  of  the  land*?  "  she  demanded  rhetorically. 

"  England  is  just  as  sick  of  the  war  as  we  are," 
Margery  replied,  the  frown  of  pain  which  mention 
of  the  war  invariably  brought  to  her  brow  darkening 
her  face.  "  But  England  can't  very  well  give  in  till 
the  Boer  Generals  agree  to  her  terms,"  she  added; 
then,  with  a  faint  sigh,  fell  to  sipping  the  coffee  Jo 
had  brought  to  her. 

"  And  why  do  they  not  hurry  themselves  and 
settle  matters?  "  argued  the  old  vrouw  angrily.  "  It 
is  all  very  well  for  them,  the  schelms,  to  go  riding 
around  the  country,  talking  and  drinking,  and  smok- 
ing and  idling  away  their  days;  having  a  regular 
jolly  spree  apart  from  their  wives  and  families," 
she  shook  her  head  knowingly.  "  ^och!  but  I  know, 
and  I  can  tell  you,  girls,  it's  we  poor  women  who've 
got  to  sit  at  home  and  sukkel  for  men's  pleasure.  No 
sugar !  —  and  there's  my  old  man  who  ought  to  be 
sleeping  in  his  bed  every  night  alongside  of  his  law- 
ful wedded  wife,  as  the  Book  tells  us  man  and  wife 
should  do,  compelled  to  creep  into  caves  and  dens  of 
the  earth  and  to  lodge  among  the  wild  beasts  of  the 
veldt !  Whoever  before  heard  of  such  a  thing  for  a 
decent  Christian  man?  '* 


266  DIVIDED 

"You  would  not  like  our  people  to  give  in  too 
quickly.  Ma?  "  urged  her  daughter. 

"  They've  fought  like  men  and  now  let  them  give 
in  like  men,"  returned  Xante  Jacoba  with  decision. 
"  They  can  depend  on  the  Engelsch  acting  in  the 
same  simple,  foolish  way  as  is  ever  their  custom  once 
they  come  to  terms  with  the  enemy  who  has  cost 
them  dearly  in  men  and  gold.  Never  mind  that ;  the 
Government  of  Great  Britain  will  all  the  same  be 
giving  us  back  our  country  once  our  Generals  agree 
to  their  terms." 

"  And  paying  the  Boers  for  their  losses  very  prob- 
ably," Margery  added,  scornfully;  "paying  them 
out  of  the  British  ratepayers'  pockets." 

"  Ach!  yes,  so  they  will  —  so  they  will,"  laughed 
the  Boer  woman,  putting  her  hands  to  her  enormous 
hips  and  rolling  from  side  to  side  in  a  long,  shrill 
cackle  of  extreme  merriment.  She  wiped  her 
streaming  eyes  and  gasped:  "  Yes,  truly,  my  child, 
it  will  be  as  you  say,  so  foolish  are  the  rooineks^  but 
yet  so  stiff-necked  —  dear  Lord,  so  stiff-necked  and 
high-minded  I  Why,  where  would  they  be  in  this 
war  if  they  had  not  the  Kolonies  men  to  help  them? 
But  talking  of  those  devils,  what  about  the  Aus- 
tralian chap  Bouwer  copped  and  brought  as  prisoner 
to  The  Outspan?  He's  sweet  on  you,  Margery, 
isn't  it  so?    Do  you  opzit  yet?  " 

Margery  laughed  disdainfully. 

"  Opzit! !  Gracious,  Tante  Jacoba,  you  can  ask 
such  a  question !    With  George  at  the  front  with  the 


DIVIDED  267 

Boers,  and  Thane  at  the  front  with  the  Irregulars! 
Good  God  I  and  you  ask  me  if  I  opzitl  Could  I  have 
the  heart  to  listen  to  the  courting  even  of  an  angel 
from  heaven  ?  " 

"  No;  but  to  the  courting  of  a  man  of  flesh  and 
blood  like  yourself,  my  girl,  you  might  listen,"  re- 
torted the  Boer  woman,  shrewdly.  "  Love-making 
and  mating  between  man  and  woman  must  go  on, 
though  the  blood  of  the  nations  daily  water  and 
drench  the  soil  of  the  land.  And  why?  'Tis  the 
decree  of  Nature  —  the  mother  of  all  creation  — 
and  against  her  eternal  decrees,  her  deep  contrivances 
for  the  increase  of  all  things  living  in  the  world  of 
man  and  bird  and  beast,  and  in  the  plant-life  of  the 
wide  world  around  us,  who  may  pit  themselves  and 
say  *  the  thing  shall  not  be '  *?  Doesn't  the  Book 
give  us  the  command  of  the  dear  Lord  Himself: 
*  Multiply  and  replenish  the  earth '  ?  And  so  it 
all  goes  on,  war  or  no  war.  Indeed,  I  expect  Nature 
troubles  herself  more  particularly  about  it  when  the 
nation's  blood  is  being  spilt  and  wasted  so  recklessly, 
since  she  is  the  mother  and  woman-like  must  worry 
over  the  -waste  of  war.  ^och!  'toch!  to  think  of  all 
our  strong  young  men,  the  flower  of  our  nation,  shot 
down  like  meercats  on  the  hill-sides,  killed  off  like 
spring-buck  in  droves  by  this  wicked,  murderous 
war  I  "  She  turned  sharply  on  the  two  girls.  "  I  am 
too  old  to  bear  children,  but  you,  young  women,  it's 
your  business  and  duty  to  take  likely  men  and  listen 
to  their  courting  so  as  to  marry  and  bear  sons  in  the 


268  DIVIDED 

place  of  those  of  our  men  of  whom  this  war  has 
robbed  us." 

Throughout  the  long  tirade  Margery  stood  look- 
ing down  half-disdainfully,  half-impatiently,  as  she 
listened  to  the  homely  sentiments  of  the  old  Boer. 

Then  she  picked  up  her  big  umbrella  and  waved 
it  in  the  direction  of  the  mountain. 

"  See  that  hill,  Tante?  "  she  demanded,  lightly. 
"  Well,  I  must  climb  it  to  see  Aletta.  Nature*?  Oh, 
yes;  we've  heard  all  about  mother-nature's  deep 
tricks  and  cunning  contrivances  ever  since  we  were 
grown  girls,  and  so  are  well  armed  to  circumvent  her; 
aren't  we,  Jo*?  What's  that*?  You're  coming 
along  with  me  a  bit"?  All  right  ...  So  long,  Tante 
Jacoba,"  and  she  swung  lightly  from  off  the  door- 
step. 


Ill 


Johanna  was  compelled  to  part  with  Margery  where 
the  boundary  fence  marked  the  line  that  separated 
du  Bruyn's  Rust  from  The  Outspan.  Leaning  upon 
the  topmost  wire  strand,  she  gazed  discontentedly 
after  the  retreating  figure  pushing  its  way  through  the 
rush-bordered  pathway  along  the  bank  of  the  stream. 
She  nodded  in  response  as  Margery,  before  rounding 
the  bend  which  would  hide  her  from  sight,  turned 
and  waved  her  hand  in  farewell.  Then  her  dark 
eyes  wandered  to  the  old  wide-branched  mimosa, 
bending  over  the  rushing  water  as  though  to  catch 
the  substance  of  its  ever-murmuring  plaint,  looking 
like  hoary-headed  age  bowed  by  the  ceaseless  struggle 
of  a  long  and  burdened  existence  bending  a  droop- 
ing head  and  dimmed  ear  to  catch  the  plaint  of  the 
ever-murmuring  song  of  the  rushing  tide  of  a  suffer- 
ing humanity. 

For  some  seconds  of  time  Johanna  looked  fixedly 
and  thoughtfully  at  the  spot  which  harboured  for 
her  such  bitter-sweet  associations,  then  turned  her 
gaze  on  the  wheat  and  barley  lands  —  a  vast  sheet 
of  yellow,  shimmering  light  —  rustling  and  swaying, 
heavy- topped,    grain-filled   sheaves   ready   for   the 

269 


270  DIVIDED 

scythe  of  the  advancing  mower.  The  lands  lay  im- 
mediately across  the  stream,  and  from  where  she 
stood,  the  Boer  girl  could  catch  occasional  glimpses 
of  the  burly  figure  of  her  lover  as  he  passed  from 
point  to  point  in  the  line  of  fields,  superintending  the 
reaping  of  the  crops,  which  work  was  being  carried 
on  at  top-speed  by  the  farm-servants,  reinforced  by 
gangs  of  natives  specially  engaged  for  the  purpose  of 
the  in-gathering  of  the  summer  harvest.  At  this 
huge  task  every  available  hand  on  the  farm  toiled 
energetically,  sickle  in  hand,  from  earliest  dawn  to 
dusk,  throughout  the  hours  of  the  long,  hot,  sunshiny 
days.  Johanna,  as  her  black  eyes  followed  Thane's 
movements  and  noted  his  quick,  impatient  gestures, 
bent  her  shapely,  swelling  bosom  more  heavily  upon 
the  supporting  wire,  while  in  her  busily-active 
imagination  scheme  upon  scheme,  plan  after  plan, 
followed  one  upon  the  other  in  rapid  succession,  dart- 
ing through  her  seething,  storm-tossed  brain  only  to 
be  dashed  aside  as  worthless  or  to  be  examined, 
weighed,  polished,  and  then  lodged  safely  in  some 
secret,  sacred  receptacle  of  her  inner  consciousness  for 
use  when  the  time  for  action  was  ripe.  As  in  life 
we  may  note  a  child  with  a  newly-discovered  treas- 
ure; see  him  looking  closely  and  intently  into  it, 
turning  it  over,  appraising  its  exact  worth ;  then,  with 
scornful  action,  tossing  it  aside  or,  with  a  smile  of 
content,  bestowing  it  safely  within  its  most  hidden 
and  sacred  repository  —  the  bosom  of  its  blouse  for 
choice,  or  the  prized  trousers'  pocket  —  so  it  was 


DIVIDED 


271 


with  the  Boer  girl  and  her  endeavours  towards  the 
precious  discovery  of  some  plan  whereby  not  only 
might  her  own  love-story  end  satisfactorily,  but  Mar- 
gery's peace  of  mind,  and  Aletta  and  her  husband's 
union  and  happiness,  be  secured.  Some  such  plan, 
suggested  by  circumstances,  had  occurred  to  the  sis- 
ters as  answering  all  the  above  requirements.  Aletta 
had  boldly  urged  it  upon  her  younger  sister,  but 
Johanna  still  halted  in  her  decision.  The  plan  in- 
volved treachery  of  a  sort  towards  her  lover  and  his 
people,  and  though,  as  Aletta  pointed  out  to  her, 
such  treachery  was  necessary  to  bring  about  a  final 
happiness  to  the  Brandon  family,  and  according  to 
the  infallible  teaching  of  the  Book,  we  may  do  evil 
if  good  is  to  come  of  it,  Johanna  still  hesitated.  Had 
Margery  been  willing  to  intercede  on  her  behalf  with 
Thane,  she  would  certainly  have  rejected  Aletta's 
machinations.  But  only  that  afternoon  Margery  had 
given  her  plainly  to  understand  that  she  need  not  look 
to  her  for  reconcilement  with  her  lover  until  George 
had  returned  .  .  .  and  God  alone  knew  when  that 
would  be,  if  ever!  .  .  .  and  she  wanted  Thane! 
.  .  .  she  could  not  live  longer  without  him !  Curse 
the  war !  .  .  .  and  so  —  once  more  she  drew  from  its 
safe  lodgment  on  the  shelf  within  her  brain  the 

precious  plan. 

*  *  * 

Margery,  too,  as  she  climbed  higher  and  higher 
the  mountain-side,  turned  and  looked  down  upon 
that  animated  yet  peaceful  scene  in  the  harvest-fields. 


272  DIVIDED 

The  sunlight  flashed  and  glinted  on  the  smooth  sides 
of  the  sharp  sickles  as  the  nude,  chocolate-brown 
arms  of  the  band  of  reapers  were  uplifted  or  dropped 
with  a  simultaneous,  steady,  rhythmical  movement 
and  the  heavily-bearded  heads  of  grain  fell  relent- 
lessly, swept  to  mother-earth  before  the  sharp,  sever- 
ing scythes  of  the  mowers.  From  the  height  at  which" 
she  now  rested,  Margery  could  still  place  the  various 
figures.  Thane  she  could  easily  distinguish  as  he 
sat  astride  the  old  pony  used  as  a  general  farm-hack, 
and  which  now  —  with  nothing  more  than  an  empty 
grain-bag  thrown  across  its  back  by  way  of  a  saddle 
—  patiently  carried  him  from  point  to  point,  up  and 
down  the  long,  swelling  acres  of  the  ripe,  nodding 
grain;  past  the  army  of  mowers;  past  the  graceful- 
limbed  native  women,  with  their  crimson  kerchiefs 
bound  artistically  above  their  black,  inscrutable  eyes 
and  white,  flashing  teeth,  as  they  stooped  and  gath- 
ered together  and  bound  in  bundles  the  fast-falling 
sheaves.  Now  she  could  see  her  brother's  arm  and 
hand  shoot  out  in  quick  gesticulation;  and  though  she 
could  hear  no  sound,  though  all  around  her  a  won- 
derful stillness  lay,  Margery  from  her  seat  on  the 
mountain-side  —  high  above  the  rushing  stream  and 
the  yellow  harvest-fields,  with  their  setting  in  the 
broad  bosom  of  the  illimitable  plain  —  could  yet 
well  understand  all  that  was  passing  in  the  mind  of 
her  brother,  the  orders  he  was  shouting  in  sharp, 
peremptory  fashion,  even  the  imperious  will  that  con- 
strained him  thus  to  bend  his  mind  in  undeviating 


DIVIDED  273 

attention  upon  the  work  in  hand  so  as  to  shut  out 
from  his  heart  and  brain  images  and  thoughts  that 
well-nigh  drove  him  to  frenzy  and  madness.  All 
this  Margery,  in  closest  touch  with  that  suffering, 
stubborn  heart,  could  comprehend  with  fullest  under- 
standing and  perfect  sympathy. 

She  could  see  Babs  —  a  dot  among  the  grown-up 
folk  —  in  her  holland  overall,  very  busily  engaged  in 
doing  nothing,  flitting  hither  and  thither  but  more 
frequently  pausing  by  the  side  of  the  wiry,  upright, 
khaki-clad  figure  in  flannel  shirt-sleeves,  working 
with  the  rest.  At  the  thought  of  what  this  man  had 
grown  to  be  to  Babs  —  who  had  created  and  set 
apart  for  him  a  special  niche  within  the  recesses  of 
her  exclusive  but  warmly-emotional  heart  —  of  the 
friend  he  had  grown  to  be  to  all  of  them,  a  sense  of 
comfort,  of  hope,  of  some  hidden,  precious,  inde- 
finable good  stole  across  her  veiled  heart,  seeming  of 
so  rare  and  blessed  a  nature  that  Margery  Brandon 
—  the  bed- fellow  of  suffering,  the  close  acquaintance 
of  misery,  and  sorrow,  and  ill-luck  —  veiled  the 
thought  of  it,  refusing  to  look  into  its  actuality  lest 
by  so  doing  it  should  fall  and  crumble  into  dust  and 
nothingness,  and  she  should  awake  to  find  herself 
wandering  as  of  old  "  in  a  land  of  sand  and  thorns." 

She  rose,  resolutely  turning  her  back  upon  the 
harvest-fields  and  their  occupants  as  she  again 
climbed  the  steep  pathway  leading  to  the  Top  Farm. 
Now,  before  her,  she  could  see  George's  home  —  the 
home  she  had  helped  him  to  plan  and  furnish,  the 


274  DIVIDED 

home  they  all  had  helped  him  to  build,  and  to  which 
he  had  taken  Aletta  as  a  bride.  A  shadow  fell  across 
her  face  as  she  bent  her  black,  menacing  brows  upon 
the  farmhouse.  The  small,  compact  red-bricked  cot- 
tage with  its  corrugated  iron  roof,  its  low,  slanting 
verandah,  its  green-painted  shutters,  and  its  front 
garden  enclosed  and  bordered  by  a  promising  hedge 
of  dipt  kafBr-boem  trees  —  George's  special  pride  — 
all  spoke  in  simple  but  eloquent  language  of  the 
past.  What  days  they  had  spent  together  there  I 
What  evenings  they  had  passed  in  the  firelit  room 
of  The  Outspan  —  planning,  contriving,  working  at 
this  new  home  to  which  the  heir  of  the  Brandons  had 
gone  forth  from  the  old  I  At  the  memory  of  those 
precious  days  when  she  had  had  her  brother  quite  to 
herself  —  those  days  before  marriage  had  taken  him 
from  his  boyhood's  home ;  when  of  a  night  she  would 
wake  frightened  or  miserable,  and  then  turn  and 
drowse  off  again,  content  and  comforted,  since  she 
could  realize  the  bare  fact  that  he  was  sleeping  under 
the  same  roof  as  those  to  whom  he  was  so  dear  — 
such  a  rush  of  emotion  stirred  within  her  that  Mar- 
gery, faint  with  misery,  sat  down  at  the  side  of  the 
track,  feeling  for  the  moment  quite  incapable  of 
facing  the  phlegmatic  and  unsympathetic  Aletta. 

"  She  always  appears  so  unconcerned,  so  cocksure 
that  George  is  well  and  happy  and  will  soon  be  back; 
it  gets  on  my  nerves,"  Margery  told  herself,  irritably; 
the  burden  laid  upon  her  soul,  the  thought  heaviest 
to  be  borne,  was  the  intolerable  suspicion  that  her 


DIVIDED  275 

brother  was  no  longer  a  free  agent,  able  to  return  to 
his  home;  that  he  was  virtually  a  prisoner,  forced 
to  remain  with  the  commando,  to  share  in  their 
hardships,  their  wanderings,  their  perils,  their  dan- 
gers ;  and  that  when  the  fight  came  —  that  fierce, 
bloody  struggle  which  all  foresaw  was  bound  one 
day  to  occur  between  the  retreating  burghers  and 
the  advancing  Irregulars  —  he  would  be  forced  to 
stand  face  to  face  in  battle  against  the  men  of  his 
own  race  and  nationality  —  a  position  intolerable  to 
him.  Under  this  burden  it  was  that  Margery's  heart 
and  soul  bowed  heavily,  and  the  cheerful  face  and 
placid  temper  of  the  phlegmatic  Aletta  caused  her 
inwardly  to  writhe  and  suffer.  Never  altogether 
congenial  to  her,  in  the  present  crisis  her  sister-in- 
law  was  too  ardent  a  partisan,  too  fierce  a  patriot,  to 
prove  a  soothing  companion.  With  Johanna  she  felt 
more  in  sympathy.  Still,  for  George's  sake  she  was 
resolved  to  maintain  a  constant,  unbroken  friendship 
with  Aletta.  In  his  interests  she  visited  the  Top 
Farm  daily,  discussed  the  crops  and  cattle,  and  thus 
acted  as  interpreter  in  the  business  of  the  farm-work 
between  Aletta  and  Thane,  who,  since  his  brother's 
departure,  had  steadily  refused  to  set  foot  on  the 
Top  Farm. 

"  I  believe  Bouwer  contrives  to  see  her  occasion- 
ally; he  has  been  seen  about  this  part;  depend  upon 
it,  she  knows  more  of  what  is  going  on  than  we  do," 
Thane  had  said  to  her  only  the  previous  evening. 
"  I  don't  trust  her,"  and  though  Margery  had  ridi- 


276  DIVIDED 

culed  the  idea,  Johanna's  start  had  given  her  pause 
for  thought,  and  the  hideous  suspicion  that  Bouwer 
might  be  planning  mischief  to  George  on  Aletta's 
account  added  to  her  burden  of  fear  and  uneasiness. 

Often  before,  she  had  pleaded  with  her  sister-in- 
law  to  leave  the  Top  Farm  homestead,  and  to  take  up 
her  quarters  at  The  Outspan,  or  with  Tante  Jacoba, 
until  her  husband's  return.  George  himself  had  sug- 
gested the  arrangement  and  had  expressed  the  wish 
that,  if  possible,  it  should  be  carried  out  in  case  of 
delay  in  his  return.  Aletta,  however,  steadily  re- 
fused to  carry  it  out. 

"  I  believe  it  now  —  I  can  quite  believe  it  when 
I  think  of  Jo's  startled,  guilty  look  —  it  is  because 
she  can  get  to  meet  Bouwer  somewhere  about  here, 
on  the  hills,  perhaps,"  thought  Margery,  desperately. 
"  For  George's  sake  I  must  get  her  away;  if  she  won't 
come,  I  or  Babs  will  have  to  live  with  her  here  .  .  . 
a  desperate  remedy  I  but  I  see  no  other  way  out  of 
the  tangle." 

Rising,  she  walked  up  to  the  cottage.  All  was 
quiet  without.  She  pushed  open  the  gate  in  the  hedge 
and  passed  noiselessly  up  the  garden  pathway  into 
the  front  room. 

Aletta  stood  before  the  inner  door  leading  into  the 
bedroom.  Her  face  was  flushed,  her  air  unusually 
discomposed.  Beneath  the  bodice  of  her  light  print 
gown  her  deep  bosom  rose  and  fell  agitatedly,  as 
her  blue  eyes  roved  searchingly  over  her  sister-in- 
law's  rigid  form  and  dark,  frowning  brows.    Margery 


DIVIDED  277 

had  felt  rather  than  seen  a  figure  disappear  quickly 
in  the  background;  had  felt  rather  than  heard  a 
sharp,  breathless  scuffle.  So  did  the  Boers  disappear 
when  the  foe  was  upon  them;  in  a  twinkling  they 
would  vanish  from  off  the  face  of  the  veldt,  while 
from  unseen  hands  the  volley  of  shot  and  hail  of 
bullets  would  rain  around,  dealing  death  and  de- 
struction upon  their  defenceless  opponents  engaged 
in  the  vain  attempt  of  battling  against  the  unseen. 

Margery's  heart  sank.  She  was  fighting  a  shadow, 
a  nightmare.  Any  moment  the  death-dealing  blow 
might  descend  to  wound,  and  torture,  and  madden. 
She  felt  her  brother's  fate  to  be  sealed.  Treachery 
was  at  work. 

Aletta's  voice  roused  her. 

"Why,  Margery,  are  you  ill?  You've  walked 
too  quickly  up  the  hill  I  Haven't  I  told  you  not  to 
bother  to  come  up  here  every  day"?  Here,  sit  down 
here." 

Margery's  eyes  never  left  her  face. 

"  Aletta !  who  —  is  —  in  —  there*?  " 

The  other  threw  a  quick,  backward  glance. 

"You're  mad!    Who  would  be  in  there*?" 

"  I  saw  —  someone  —  a  man." 

Aletta's  eyes  hardened. 

"  You  saw  me  —  coming  out  of  the  room !  Would 
you  see  for  yourself?    Look,  then " 

She  threw  back  the  door.  Margery,  from  where 
she  stood,  had  a  full  view  of  the  vacant  bedroom,  of 
the  open  window  facing  th°:  mountain  height. 


278  DIVIDED 

Of  what  use  to  endeavour  to  prove  her  accusation, 
she  asked  herself,  since  the  intruder  had  escaped? 
Of  what  use  to  persist  in  a  statement  that  would  but 
cause  additional  danger  to  her  brother? 

"  Margery,"  Aletta  said,  passionately,  "  you 
would  insult  me  with  your  suspicions;  but  never 
again  set  foot  in  my  house  if  you  harbour  such  vile 
thoughts  of  me." 

"  Of  course  I  must  have  been  mistaken,"  Mar- 
gery replied  in  dull  tones.  "  I  certainly  seemed  to 
see  a  man  behind  you,  who  disappeared  quickly  into 
the  bedroom  as  I  came  in.  ...  I  thought  it  might 
be " 

"Who?"  demanded  her  sister-in-law,  sharply. 

"  Your  father;  or,  maybe,  someone  from  the  com- 
mando with  a  message  from  George." 

Aletta  moved  forward  heavily  and  sank  down  on 
a  chair,  resting  her  arms  on  the  table,  while  Margery, 
who  had  remained  standing,  looked  down  on  her. 

"  Then  it  was  a  message,"  she  said  in  a  low,  deep 
tone.  "  Oh,  Aletta,  tell  me  if  you  have  heard  news 
of  him." 

"  You  are  a  little  fool,"  Aletta  replied,  con- 
temptuously.   "  George  is  well  enough." 

"  Then  you  have  heard?  "  repeated  the  other. 

The  Boer  woman  shrugged  her  broad  shoulders. 

"  If  I  have  should  I  tell  you,  in  order  that  you 
may  give  me  and  my  people  away  to  your  great 
friend,  the  Australian  captain?" 

"  How  could  I,  when  it  would  mean  getting  news 


DIVIDED 


279 


of  George  ?  "  said  Margery,  simply.  "  He  comes  first 
with  me." 

"  He  did^  I  know;  but  when  a  woman  gets  a  lover 
the  brother  comes  second." 

"  Not  with  me,"  her  sister-in-law  returned  dryly. 
"But,  Aletta,"  she  added,  with  a  change  of  tone, 
"  I'll  tell  you  this  much  —  you  are  already  under 
suspicion  of  communicating  with  the  enemy;  so  be 
careful.  To  save  you  from  unpleasant  consequences 
I  shall  come  up  here  and  stay  with  you  for  a  time." 

"  But  I  don't  want  you,  Margery,"  cried  Aletta, 
in  perturbed  tones.  "  It  will  just  be  giving  yourself 
trouble  for  nothing." 

"  But  you  must  put  up  with  my  presence;  or  else 
come  to  us  till  George  returns.  The  office r-in-charge 
was  telling  father  and  Thane  it  must  be  arranged 
either  way." 

"  Oh  I  so  that  is  what  you  have  come  to  tell  me"?  " 

Margery  nodded  assent. 

"  You  mean  that  you  will  arrange  this  plan  that 
suits  yourself,  with  your  friend,  the  captain,  so  soon 
as  you  get  home." 

"  If  you  like  to  put  it  so,"  Margery  returned  care- 
lessly. 

"  Your  friend  will  do  a  lot  to  please  you,"  Aletta 
said  tauntingly,  furious  at  the  outcome  of  the  visit. 

There  was  a  note  of  fierceness  in  the  retort : 

"  I  won't  stand  idly  by  while  you  and  Bouwer 
plot  how  best  you  can  keep  George  with  the  com- 
mando —  how  best  you  can  detain  him  there  month 


28o  DIVIDED 

after  month  till  they  have  had  a  big  engagement  with 
the  Irregulars  —  how  best  you  can  goad  him  into 
shooting,  or  being  shot  —  a  bullet  through  his  back 
for  choice  I " 

Margery's  low-toned  vehemence  pierced  the  den- 
sity of  the  Boer  woman's  insensitiveness.  She  shrank 
before  the  bitter,  cutting  tones,  the  telling  accusa- 
tions; then  gathered  up  her  courage  and  plunged 
afresh  into  the  fray  of  words. 

"  Almachtig!  Margery  Brandon,  are  you  mad*? 
Have  you  gone  quite  crazy  with  your  suspicions  of 
every  one  of  us  where  George  is  concerned'?  Shame 
upon  you  for  using  such  words  to  your  brother's 
wife !  And  as  for  keeping  me  a  prisoner,  no  doubt 
your  friend  will  do  that  and  more  to  please  you,  for 
he's  your  lover  —  I  saw  that  long  since,  when  you 
were  here  together,  and  so  I  told  George.  Yet  take 
care ;  all  women  have  their  price ;  all  men  claim  their 
reward " 

"  I  can  look  after  myself,"  Margery  returned,  her 
dark  brows  raised  disdainfully.  "  It's  you  who  must 
be  guarded  —  for  George's  sake." 

"  Then  arrange  for  Johanna  to  be  sheep-dog," 
Aletta  shrilled.     "  I'll  have  no  other." 

"  Poor  Jo !  —  what  good  could  she  do*?  " 

"  Babble  to  Thane  —  she's  dust  under  his  feet, 
and  you  know  it." 

Margery  shook  her  head  frowningly. 

"  I  know  nothing  of  the  kind  ...  I  hear  what 
you  say  and  what  you  put  into  her  mouth  to  say,  but 


DIVIDED  281 

Thane  is  no  such  blackguard  as  you  would  make  him 
out  to  be.  Jo  must  be  kept  from  pestering  him.  If 
she  is  allowed  off  du  Bruyn's  Rust  she'll  find  a  way 
to  get  plaguing  him  again." 

"  Plaguing  him,  indeed  I  since  when  has  Thane  to 
be  so  specially  considered"?  " 

"  Thane  is  not  himself  since  George  left,"  his 
sister  returned,  steadily.  "I'll  not  have  him 
bothered." 

"  Doesn't  he  spend  half  his  time  fighting  like  the 
very  fiend  with  those  devils,  wild  as  himself? " 
Aletta  questioned  mockingly.  "  A  Boer  is  to  him 
much  the  same  as  a  red  rag  to  a  bull.  But  have  your 
own  way,  you  masterful  creature;  I'll  consent  to  put 
up  with  your  supervision  provided  you  get  the  officer- 
in-charge  down  there  to  allow  Jo  to  be  with  me  as 
well.  I'll  keep  her  tied  to  my  apron-strings,  I  prom- 
ise you,  Margery,  quite  safely  out  of  Thane's  way. 
Go  now,  my  schoen-sister,''  she  sneered,  "  go  and  ar- 
range the  matter  thus,  like  a  dear,  good  girl,  with 
the  men  who  war  against  women." 

"  I  am  going  now,  Aletta,"  Margery  responded, 
turning  as  she  spoke  and  moving  towards  the  door- 
way, "  but  remember  this  —  if  ever  Bouwer  is  seen 
about  here  again,  when  I  return  it  will  be  to  stay." 

"Captain  Woodward  would  be  desolated,  I  am 
sure  I  "  her  sister-in-law  called  tauntingly  after  her. 


IV 


That  gentleman,  as  he  stood  beside  the  stream  — 
absorbed  in  the  whisperings  of  the  coming  of  lovre 
and  the  garnering  of  a  great  and  precious  store  of 
life's  truest,  highest  happiness  —  listened  intently 
for  the  first  sounds  that  should  announce  the  coming 
of  the  woman  he  loved.  Then  he  heard  the  step  he 
had  long  awaited,  caught  the  faintest  swish  of  her 
muslin  skirts  brushing  the  grass-grown  sides  of  the 
track,  and  experienced  with  a  sense  of  ever-fresh 
amazement  the  wonder  that  a  time  had  ever  been 
when  he  had  remained  deaf  and  insensible  to  her 
approach  and  presence. 

Through  the  dim  light  Margery  moved  softly  to 
his  side.  He  turned  with  a  quick,  glad  movement. 
In  his  hands  held  out  to  her,  in  his  eyes  as  they  swept 
over  her  face,  she  recognized  the  truth  of  the  oft- 
confessed  tale  of  the  strong,  abiding  love  this  man 
bore  for  her;  and  while  the  knowledge  brought  to 
her  that  thrill,  as  of  some  new,  sweet  music  beating 
to  the  tune  of  life,  it  brought  also  that  sense  of  fear 
and  distrust  of  any  good  life  might  offer  her;  that 
remembrance  from  the  past,  stealing  over  her,  ren- 
dering her  too  intimidated  and  absorbed  to  be  fully 

282 


DIVIDED  283 

alive  to  the  sense  of  quick,  up-springing  emotion  re- 
animating her  frame. 

Slowly,  in  that  deep  centre  of  her  soul  where  she 
had  so  long  agonized  in  solitude,  the  capacity  for 
emotion,  long  since  crushed  and  battered  out,  stirred 
anew  and  thrust  itself  insistently  upon  her  senses. 
As  he  stood  before  her  now  —  sympathetic,  mag- 
netic, forceful  —  she  felt  once  again  that  romantic 
quality  of  existence  which  had  so  intimately  pre- 
sented itself  to  her  in  the  past.  Her  pulses  once 
more  started  beating  steadily  to  the  tune  of  life  —  a 
sane,  healthy,  human  life. 

"  You  are  late,"  Woodward  said,  as  with  a  quick, 
insistent  gesture  he  drew  her  hands  within  his. 
"  How  long  the  afternoon  has  seemed  without  you !  '* 

"  Poor  Babs  I  "  she  returned,  lightly.  "  She 
seemed  to  be  doing  her  level  best  for  your  entertain- 
ment. I  watched  you  both  from  up  there."  She 
pointed  her  umbrella  mountain-wards. 

"  I  had  my  work  cut  out  slipping  off  without  her, 
dear  child  —  Heaven  bless  her  sweet,  sharp  eyes !  I 
thought  I  should  never  have  got  the  chance,  but  at 
last  fortune  was  kind.  Come,  let  us  sit  down  for  a 
bit." 

But  Margery  drew  together  her  straight,  dark 
brows  in  thoughtful  consideration. 

"  It  is  getting  late "  she  began,  but  he  in- 
terrupted her  with  such  a  determined :  "  Not  a  bit  of 
it,"  that  she  relented,  and  crossing  the  bridge  sank 
down  among  the  mosses  and  grass  on  the  opposite 


284  DIVIDED 

bank  of  the  stream,  throwing  off  her  straw  hat  and 
baring  her  face  and  head  to  the  cool,  languorous  air 
of  the  summer  night. 

"Just  for  five  minutes,  then;  I  really  am  tired, 
and  it  will  give  you  time  for  a  smoke.  Now,  what 
was  it  you  particularly  wanted?  "  she  asked,  in  a 
careless,  elder-sisterly  tone  —  the  tone  she  invariably 
adopted  towards  him. 

He  lay  stretched  on  the  grass  at  her  feet  as  he 
puffed  at  the  cigarette  he  had  taken  from  his  case, 
content  for  the  time  being  with  her  near  presence 
which  alone  had  the  power  to  bring  a  deep,  intense 
satisfaction  to  his  soul.  That  she  refused  to  listen  to 
his  words  of  love,  that  she  invariably  treated  these 
sentiments  with  studied  indifference  or  disdain,  that 
she  held  intact  the  inner  entrance  to  her  heart,  did 
not  altogether  discourage  him,  since  he  had  for  some 
time  past  perceived  signs  of  the  process  of  a  thaw  — 
slow,  but  evident  —  which  had  certainly  begun  its 
work  of  melting  the  iron-bound  frost  that  had 
chilled  and  warped  the  current  of  her  blood. 

His  tones,  tender  yet  masterful,  came  pleasantly 
to  her  ears : 

"What  I  particularly  want*?  Well,  this;  don't 
you  think  I  have  been  sufficiently  patient*?  Haven't 
you  kept  me  long  enough  in  suspense?  " 

She  raised  her  dark  eyebrows,  a  faint  smile  —  dis- 
dainful, puzzling  —  crept  round  her  red  lips;  her 
eyes,  as  they  studied  his  upturned,  questioning  face, 
were  inscrutable,  while  from  their  deep  setting  they 


DIVIDED  285 

flashed  their  greenish-grey  glances  steadily  into  nis. 

"  Oh  I  Is  that  it,  Phil,"  —  for  so,  at  his  request, 
she  had  grown  to  address  him,  while  to  him  she  was 
"  Miss  Margery  "  in  public,  and  "  Margery  "  when 
he  was  alone  with  her.  A  softer  look  stole  over  her 
face,  then  she  confessed:  "  It  is  such  a  comfort  to 
have  someone  to  talk  to  —  someone  who  under- 
stands; and  I  should  miss  you  very,  very  much."  Her 
low,  bell-toned  voice  mingling  with  the  voice  of  the 
stream  as  it  rippled  and  purled  and  plashed  over  the 
stones  of  its  gravel-bed  was  added  music  in  his  ears. 
He  turned  on  his  side  and  caught  her  hand. 

"  That  is  it;  and  you  must  listen  to  me,"  he  said, 
masterfully. 

"  I  am  tired,"  she  repeated,  her  eyes  magnetizing 
his  senses  as  she  sat,  her  hand  in  his,  looking  down 
upon  him,  "  and  you  are  so  restful ;  it  is  such  a  com- 
fort to  have  you  to  talk  to  when  mind  and  soul,  and 
brain  and  body,  all  are  aching  and  weary;  yet,  Cap- 
tain Woodward,  I'll  resign  that  comfort  rather  than 
sit  here  listening  to  words  of  love." 

"And  why?"  he  demanded  sharply,  struggling 
with  the  wild  desire  to  take  her  in  his  arms;  won- 
dering whether  he  might  risk  it  —  risk  her  anger, 
and  amaze,  and  disdain. 

But  she  was  speaking,  still  in  that  softer  key: 

"  Because  it  would  not  be  honest." 

"  You  are  honesty  itself,"  he  said,  quickly. 

"  But  were  I  to  encourage  your  love  —  knowing 
that  I  could  not  return  it  —  would  that  be  honest?  " 
she  asked,  slowly. 


286  DIVIDED 

"  Could  not?  "  he  questioned,  striving  to  read  her 
face,  to  interpret  her  heart,  to  fathom  her  soul. 

She  was  silent.  Something  in  the  question  as  he 
put  it,  something  unprecedented  and  forceful  in  his 
bearing  and  look,  stimulated  and  challenged  her 
imagination.  She  saw  before  her  the  tall,  muscular, 
wiry-looking  man  with  bronzed  face  and  iron-grey 
eyes,  recognizing  in  his  personality  that  strength  and 
determination  of  character  which  nothing  could 
ruffle  or  turn  aside  from  its  set  purpose.  Of  the 
kindliness  of  his  nature  she  had  long  had  abundant 
proofs;  of  his  resources  in  difficulties,  of  his  willing 
service  for  others,  she  was  abundantly  assured.  He 
was  her  friend  —  her  close,  intimate  friend;  the 
man  she  could  admire,  esteem,  appreciate.  He  was 
clever,  kind,  sincere,  trustworthy.  And  —  he  was 
at  her  feet;  pleading  for  the  gift  of  her  love,  for  the 
gift  of  that  long-stifled,  unemotional  treasure  —  her 
sunless  heart. 

Might  it  be  possible,  after  the  bitter  tragedy  of 
the  past,  after  the  dull,  grey  years  of  monotonous 
drudgery,  that  life  indeed  held  precious  balm  for 
her?  Again  her  soul  and  mind  conceived  the  idea 
that  the  future  might  still  hold  for  her  something 
indefinable,  intangible,  yet  rare  and  precious.  Again 
hope  raised  its  head  and  a  sense  of  quiet,  forceful, 
mysterious  content,  a  feeling  which  surpassed  ela- 
tion, filled  her  whole  being,  stealing  like  a  note  of 
vague,  unseen,  but  intensely-realized  music  —  deep- 
sounding  and  soul-satisfying  —  across  the  greyness 
of  her  long  prison-bound  senses. 


DIVIDED  287 

He  had  drawn  nearer  to  her,  his  hands  still  hold- 
ing hers  against  his  breast,  his  face  close  to  hers  as 
he  asked  searchingly: 

"  It  is  not '  could  not,'  is  it,  Margery*?  You  could 
return  my  love"?    You  do,  thank  God,  you  do !  " 

His  lips  against  hers  frightened  her,  his  arm 
around  her  terrified  her.  With  a  white  face  she 
moved  from  him  restlessly,  as  she  breathed  half- 
beseechingly,  half-questioningly : 

"  Love  is  very  beautiful  —  if  the  Fates  are  kind 
.  .  .  and  I  suppose  we  all  grasp  out  after  it  —  that's 
only  human.  But  I  must  not  think  of  it  ...  I 
ought  not  to  think  of  it  —  at  least,"  she  concluded 
hesitatingly,  "  at  least,  not  yet;  don't  ask  me  ..." 

His  keen  eyes  watched  every  line  of  her  face.  Her 
agitation  did  not  escape  his  notice.  Beneath  the 
lowered  lids  he  saw  the  unmistakable  dawn  of  that 
new  hope  and  new  happiness  which  was  filling  her 
heart  and  soul,  sweeping  through  all  the  forces  of  her 
being  as  a  swift,  irresistible  tide,  impossible  of  re- 
pression. She  loved  him,  he  felt,  and  his  heart  beat 
forcefully  at  the  knowledge  now  suddenly  revealed 
to  him.  The  muscles  of  his  arms  were  tense  in  the 
struggle  between  the  growing  desire  to  keep  them 
still  and  the  more  powerful  desire  to  seize  upon  her, 
breaking  her  scruples  to  his  will  by  the  might  and 
power  of  his  physical  strength.  Yet,  bearing  in 
mind  her  plea  "  not  yet,"  and  conscious  that  such 
was  her  sincerely  heartfelt  wish,  he  crushed  the  over- 
whelming personal  desire,  and  answered  with  the  ten- 


288  DIVIDED 

derness  which  had  captured  the  impregnable  fortress 
of  her  heart : 

"  Dearest,  yor  ask  me  and  I  must  obey  —  but  on 
one  condition  only,"  the  masterful  note  again  crept 
into  his  voice,  "  that  you  will  not  make  the  '  not 
yet '  longer  than  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow !  "  she  was  startled  and  showed  it. 

They  both  rose  and  faced  each  other. 

"  Let  us  say  to-morrow,"  Woodward  said,  quietly. 
"  I  love  you,  dear,  with  all  the  strength  of  my  man- 
hood; I  love  you  as  I  never  thought  it  was  in  me  to 
love;  and  I  believe  —  and  if  I  am  wrong  you  will 
tell  me  —  but  I  believe  most  convincingly  and  em- 
phatically that  you  return  my  love.  We  have  lived 
six  months  under  the  same  roof,"  he  continued  seri- 
ously, as  she  stood  with  lowered  gaze  before  him,  her 
brows  drawn  together  as  in  thought.  "  I  won  your 
friendship  with  difficulty  —  your  love  with  immeas- 
urably greater  difficulty;  but  I  have  won  it"?  —  it  is 
mine,  is  it  not,  dear?  You  are  too  honest-hearted  to 
evade  the  truth  .  .  .  too  noble-hearted  to  pretend 
—  to  play  with  a  man  —  you  will  answer  me  hon- 
estly to-morrow?" 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his.  Her  face  with  the  dark 
mask  drawn  over  it,  her  set  features,  her  air  of  su- 
preme unconsciousness  puzzled  Woodward,  and  for 
a  moment  he  knew  not  what  to  think.  She  saw  that 
he  was  troubled,  perplexed,  irritated;  that  he  was 
examining  her  afresh.  His  uncertainty,  his  irrita- 
tion, his  look  searching  her  body  and  soul,  was  balm 


DIVIDED  289 

to  her  heart,  for  in  these  signs  she  read  the  strength 
and  intensity  of  his  love  for  her.  The  love  and  de- 
votion of  this  strong,  deeply-reserved  nature  had  been 
given  her  —  a  gift  from  heaven.  She  could  have 
fallen  on  her  knees  before  him.  A  smile,  pure  and 
sweet,  passed  over  her  face  and  lighted  up  her  deep- 
set,  gleaming  eyes.  With  that  smile  Woodward  tri- 
umphed with  the  joy  of  a  strong  man's  forceful  in- 
tensity. In  it  he  read  that  she  loved  him,  wor- 
shipped him,  desired  him,  lived  for  him. 

But:  "  To-morrow,"  she  said  pleadingly,  holding 
him  back;  and  through  the  solitude  of  the  warm 
southern  night,  tranquil  and  effulgent,  filled  by 
silence  and  the  silver  of  the  moonlight  and  the  stars, 
they  passed  up  the  fruit-laden  orchard  and  through 
the  garden  —  heavy  with  the  scent  of  strange,  odor- 
ous perfumes  —  to  the  door  of  the  post-house. 


That  night,  as  Margery  lay  wakeful,  her  hand 
touching  the  child's,  a  new  vision  of  herself  came  to 
her  —  she  could  not  define  how  or  why.  She  saw 
herself  as  she  must  have  appeared  in  Woodward's 
eyes  during  the  days  and  weeks  and  months  of  their 
close  acquaintance,  during  the  whole  of  the  time  they 
had  spent  together  in  the  familiar  intimacy  of  fam- 
ily life  passed  under  the  roof  of  The  Outspan.  She 
saw  herself  as  he  must  have  seen  her  —  carelessly 
cold,  sharply  disdainful,  wilfully  ungracious,  sys- 
tematically indifferent.  She  saw  herself  thus  in  the 
fierce,  scorching  light  of  self-revelation,  and  the  pain 
and  humiliation  of  that  vision  were  well-nigh  un- 
bearable. 

The  stubbornness  before  which  her  proud  heart 
had  refused  to  unbend,  the  bitterness  which  had  eaten 
like  a  canker  into  the  core  of  her  warm,  true  nature, 
had  caused  her  thus  to  conceal  from  the  man  her 
true  self.  With  purpose  and  intent  she  had  hidden 
that  better,  truer  self  from  him,  and  had  put  his  pa- 
tience to  impossible  tests;  and  when  at  times,  after 
some  intolerably-scornful  repulse  on  her  part,  they 
had  drifted  asunder  for  days  together  she  had  secretly 

290 


DIVIDED  291 

blamed  him  for  not  knowing  better,  for  not  discern- 
ing through  those  symptoms  of  biting  acrimony  the 
real  woman  looking  even  then,  though  unconsciously, 
to  this  man  to  whom  her  soul,  by  the  mysterious 
forces  which  govern  individual  life,  was  gradually 
becoming  knit  in  bonds  eternal.  Now  she  realized 
the  utter  impossibility  of  his  perceiving  what  she  had 
hidden  so  carefully.  She  realized  how  impossible  it 
had  been  for  him  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  real,  true 
self;  and  bitter  remorse  that  she  should  so  unjustly 
have  blamed  him,  while,  at  the  same  time,  so  con- 
sistently thwarting  his  invariable  kindness  and  re- 
jecting with  cold  disdain  his  unobtrusive  devotion, 
swept  over  her  senses  —  humiliating  and  torturing 
her. 

"  I  blamed  him  for  everything,"  she  told  herself 
fiercely,  recalling  those  days  when  she  had  suffered 
deeply  because  of  the  break  between  their  friendship 
caused  by  her  coldness  and  unbearable  ungracious- 
ness; "  I  was  a  fool  —  I  believed  myself  a  martyr; 
I  blamed  him  for  everything  that  caused  a  jar  be- 
tween us  I  " 

She  was  bitter  in  her  self- accusation,  fierce  in  her 
self-condemnation.  She  asked  herself :  "  Why  did 
I  do  it?  .  .  .  I  liked  the  man,  yet  always  it  seemed 
as  though  it  were  forced  upon  me  to  show  him  my 
worst  side." 

That  she  had  done  so  consistently,  persistently, 
she  recognized,  but  could  not  reason  why.  Yet  she 
had  loved  him  with  all  the  strength  of  her  warm,  lov- 


292  DIVIDED 

ing  heart;  with  all  that  vast  depth  of  feeling  so  es- 
sentially her  bane.  The  while  she  had  rejected  his 
love,  she  had  never  questioned  her  reason  for  thus 
deceiving  Woodward  as  to  her  real  nature  and  true 
self.  But  on  this  night  of  self-revelation,  following 
upon  his  appeal  and  her  partial  acceptance  of  that 
appeal,  when  it  was  granted  to  her  to  see  the  clear 
vision,  the  lack  of  which  had  led  to  a  cramping  of 
her  soul  and  a  crushing  of  the  noblest  instincts  of  her 
nature,  Margery  Brandon,  as  she  lay  looking  with 
eyes  darkened  by  pain  into  the  blackness  of  the  night, 
was  constrained  by  the  workings  of  her  spirit  to 
search  after  the  reason  for  her  illogical  treatment  of 
Woodward,  and  the  true  reason  for  her  conduct  in- 
stantly presented  itself  before  her  —  appalling  and 
intimidating  her. 

There  was  method  underlying  this  same  appar- 
ently illogical  conduct,  as  she  recognized.  He  was 
not  to  blame  nor  was  she.  Circumstances,  she  told 
herself  bitterly,  the  irony  of  fate,  the  tragedy  that 
follows  us  through  life,  the  consistent  crookedness 
and  contrariness  of  things  in  general,  the  crime  of  a 
man  more  feeble  than  wicked,  more  fool  than  villain 
—  all  these  were  to  blame  for  the  situation  that  had 
forced  itself  upon  her.  What  was  her  present  posi- 
tion, she  asked  herself;  and  acknowledged  that,  in 
the  existing  state  of  society,  according  to  the  accepted 
conventions  in  the  world  in  which  she  moved,  she 
would  stand  condemned,  exiled  and  banned,  as  the 
unmarried  mother  of  a  child,  though  through  no 


DIVIDED  293 

fault  or  sin  of  her  own  —  through  ignorance,  heed- 
lessness, wilfulness  only.  She  drew  Babs'  small, 
plump  hand  to  her  mouth,  pressing  her  hot  lips 
against  it.  The  child  was  dear  to  her,  though  the 
father  —  the  man  who  had  shared  that  blissful,  dis- 
astrous honeymoon  of  ten  years  since;  the  ardent, 
impetuous  young  wooer,  who  had  married  her  heed- 
less of  the  bar  to  their  legal  union  —  was  now  noth- 
ing more  than  a  visionary  personage  of  some  half- 
forgotten,  ghost-haunted  dream. 

Babs,  she  had  sworn  —  and  she  was  resolved  at  all 
costs  to  hold  to  her  oath  —  Babs  never  should  suffer 
for  the  mad  folly  and  indiscretion  of  those  youthful 
days.  Babs  never  should  be  known  to  a  cruel,  heart- 
less world  as  nameless;  not  even  to  this  man  who  had 
sought  and  won  her  love. 

With  her  dark  secret  locked  in  the  grave  of  her 
dead  mother,  and  secure  as  in  a  living  tomb  within 
the  heart  of  her  faithful  brother  —  the  two  who  had 
come  to  her  aid  in  her  trouble  —  Margery  felt  that 
she  need  have  no  uneasiness  in  regard  to  its  up- 
heaval, to  its  ever  coming  to  light,  unless  by  some 
act  of  madness  on  her  part,  such  as  the  giving  of 
herself  to  another.  And  now  she  recognized  the 
hour  of  this  madness  was  at  hand.  The  man  who 
loved  her,  the  man  whom,  despite  her  utmost  endeav- 
ours to  the  contrary,  she  had  grown  to  love,  awaited 
on  the  morrow  her  answer;  and  how  to  answer  him 
she  knew  not. 

This,  then,  was  the  reason  why  instinct  had  bade 


294  DIVIDED 

her  treat  him  with  coldness,  with  disdain,  with  rude- 
ness; had  bade  her  hide  from  him  her  true,  real  self. 
The  mother's  instinct  within  her  had  bade  her  beware 
lest  the  secret  of  her  child's  nameless  birth  should  be 
compelled  by  the  power  of  passion  from  her  reluctant 
lips.  Yet  Margery  vowed  such  should  never  be; 
rather  would  she  renounce  her  love  for  Woodward; 
rather  would  she  reject  the  sweetness  of  the  love 
offered  her  .  .  .  yet  this  again  she  could  not  bring 
herself  to  contemplate. 

How  should  she  answer  him  on  the  morrow  *?  She 
could  see  herself  standing  before  him  —  dull,  enig- 
matic, graceless,  cold  —  as  she  lifted  a  masked  face 
and  veiled  eyes  to  his  strong,  eager  face.  She  could 
see  him  before  her  —  masterful,  tender,  patient,  de- 
voted —  as  he  looked  down  with  eyes  searching  and 
anxious,  piercing  to  the  depths  of  her  lonely,  brood- 
ing soul. 

Suddenly  her  burning  eyeballs  smarted  with  the 
flow  of  salt  tears.  Bitter  tears  damped  her  cheeks, 
falling  silently  onto  the  pillow.  She  longed  in- 
tensely for  another  chance  for  happiness.  Was  not 
this  man  worth  loving"?  she  asked  herself,  passion- 
ately. Could  she  not  make  amends  to  him  for  her 
silence  as  to  that  tragedy  of  the  buried  past  over 
which  a  veil  must  ever  rest? 

Babs  she  would  certainly  never  betray.  Her 
secret  should  remain  her  own,  she  vowed  in  head- 
strong, wilful  fashion,  ^hat  she  would  never 
disclose,     never    surrender.      George,     of    course, 


DIVIDED  295 

would  urge  upon  her  to  do  so;  to  him  it  would 
seem  right  that  a  woman  should  confess  to  the 
man  she  was  taking  as  husband  so  important 
a  page  of  her  past  life;  but,  then,  George  was 
always  such  a  boy  for  doing  the  straight  thing, 
for  doing  what  was  right.  But  she  would  laugh  at 
his  scruples,  would  persuade  him  to  allow  her  to  act 
as  she  thought  best;  and  never  would  he,  with  his 
fond,  true  love  for  his  sister,  stand  in  the  light  of  this 
great  flood  of  new-born  happiness  which  was  to  re- 
create the  world  for  her,  to  fill  and  satisfy  her  long- 
burdened  soul  with  that  best,  good  gift  of  perfect 
union  —  the  best  gift  that  life  has  to  offer  to  hu- 
manity. 

Slowly  it  dawned  upon  her  that  she  had  formed 
her  decision  as  to  the  answer  she  would  make  to 
Woodward  on  the  morrow.  She  would  give  him 
such  a  reply  as  should  draw  them  together  man  and 
wife  in  strong,  consoling  and  soul-satisfying  union 
for  the  future  years  of  life;  that  would  leave  no 
sting,  no  fruitless  repining,  no  separation  through 
those  j^ears  to  come.  By  the  light  of  her  freshly- 
acquired  knowledge  she  craved  the  opportunity  of 
shaping  her  life  aright;  of  setting  herself  in  true 
perspective  in  the  eyes  of  this  man;  of  making  his 
life  of  inestimable  worth  to  him.  If  it  might  be! 
She  reached  out  timidly  after  this  new  vision  of  pos- 
sible happiness  in  order  to  look  more  closely  upon 
the  light  of  its  face.  With  the  dark  face  of  sorrow 
she  was  well  acquainted.    Now  she  was  emboldened 


296  DIVIDED 

by  this  confession  of  mutual,  abiding  love  to  believe 
that  a  long-lost  fortune  was  indeed  about  to  smile 
upon  her.  She  felt  uplifted,  elated,  inspired,  as  once 
before  in  those  far-off  years  of  her  girlhood,  by  an 
unreasoning  joy  of  life.  The  romance  of  life  pre- 
sented itself  insistently  before  her,  and  she  tasted 
once  more  of  that  strange  magic  underlying  the  ma- 
terial and  the  prosaic.  Nothing  was  changed,  yet 
nothing  remained  the  same  ...  All  was  new  .  .  . 
She  was  again  a  girl  —  loving  and  beloved  —  and 
she  fell  into  dreamland  with  Woodward's  touch  and 
look  and  presence  enfolding  and  surrounding  her. 


VI 


She  sat  on  the  old  wicker-couch  in  the  shade  of  the 
creeper-covered  verandah,  over  whose  trellised  sides 
a  riot  of  red  and  white  roses  climbed  in  profusion; 
the  familiar  basket  of  mending  on  the  table  before 
her,  her  veiled  eyes  still  searchingly  bent  on  discov- 
ering the  rents  and  thin  places  in  the  garments  which 
she  busily  patched,  or  at  which  she  industriously 
darned.  Her  straightly-marked,  heavy  eyebrows, 
her  dark  hair,  her  deep-set,  gleaming  eyes,  all  stood 
out  in  striking  contrast  against  the  soft  whiteness  of 
her  loose  muslin  blouse  with  its  low-cut,  frilled  collar 
revealing  the  contours  of  the  shapely  throat  and 
neck  that  rose  column-like  above  the  graceful,  wom- 
anly figure. 

With  the  impassiveness  wiped  from  her  face,  the 
apathy  swept  from  her  heart,  she  appeared  to  Wood- 
ward —  who,  in  shirt-sleeves,  sat  on  the  edge  of  the 
table,  his  eyes  down-bent  to  hers  —  as  one  grown 
young  and  vigorous  and  lusty  after  a  full  mid-tide  of 
sickness  which  had  aged  and  withered  body  and 
soul.  Was  she  indeed  the  woman  —  so  old-young, 
so  tired,  so  indifferent,  so  uninteresting  and  unin- 
spiring —  who  on  his  first  appearance  at  The  Out- 

297 


298  DIVIDED 

span  had  set  before  him  his  first  repast*?  She  was; 
and  that  the  power  of  love  —  his  love  for  her  —  had 
wrought  this  miracle  of  change,  bringing  back  to  her 
face  and  bearing  their  former  youth  and  vigour  and 
comeliness,  and  to  her  spirit  healing  and  happiness, 
raised  within  him  a  passionate  intensity  of  joy. 

All  around  them  lay  a  great  silence;  masters  and 
servants  toiled  at  the  harvesting  in  the  fields  while 
the  sweltering  heat  of  the  early  summer  morning  still 
lay  upon  the  land.  Old  Lisbeth  —  crooning  a  low, 
sibilant  strain  over  her  pots  and  pans  in  the  kitchen 
—  was  the  only  human  creature  within  sound  or  hail. 
Even  Babs  had  been  lured  by  promise  of  a  ride  on 
the  old  black  pony  to  remain  under  the  trees  in  the 
harvest  field,  within  sight  of  the  reapers,  while 
Woodward,  on  the  plea  of  fetching  drinks  for  the 
busy  harvesters,  had  returned  unhindered  to  the  post- 
house. 

The  drinks  had  been  duly  forwarded  by  a  couple 
of  piccaninnies,  but  Woodward  still  lingered  in  the 
shade  of  the  rose-scented,  deep-shadowed  verandah, 
his  ears  drinking  in  the  low,  sweet  tones  as  Margery 
confessed  in  broken  snatches: 

"  It  is  true  ...  I  made  a  miserable  riddle  of  my- 
self —  not  to  you  only,  but  to  everyone  about  me  — 
chiefly  to  men  —  most  particularly  to  men  who 
seemed  to  care  for  me  ...  I  hated  the  idea  of  love." 

"  And  I  was  one  of  those  same,"  he  said,  raising 
her  hand  to  his  lips,  "  and  you  have  given  this  to  me, 
my  enigma !  my  dear,  cruel,  crafty  riddle !  And  you 
are  in  love  with  love?  " 


DIVIDED  299 

They  both  laughed,  both  felt  the  truth  of  his 
words.  But  while  the  woman  hugged  to  her  bosom 
the  key  to  the  riddle  which  still  puzzled  him,  the 
man  merely  perceived  that  though  he  had  gained 
the  precious  gift  of  her  love,  much  within  that  in- 
tense, silent  nature  was  shut  out  and  hidden  from  his 
sight  and  comprehension.  Deep  within  her  deep-set 
eyes  lay  that  which  told  of  a  past  experience  of  which 
he  could  form  no  conception,  save  that  it  had  been 
an  experience  of  unprecedented  strength  and  force- 
fulness  —  lasting  in  its  effects,  crushing  in  its  after- 
math. Yet,  since  it  was  of  the  past,  and  since  he 
had  cured  her  of  the  life-in-death  sickness  under 
which  she  had  fallen  prone  and  had  gained  the 
precious  gift  of  the  love  of  this  forceful,  passionate 
heart,  this  strong,  true  nature  —  why.  Woodward 
asked  himself,  should  he  strive  to  tear  aside  the  veil 
of  reserve  with  which  she  cloaked  whatever  tragedy 
or  sorrow,  or  succession  of  long-continuous  sorrows  or 
misfortunes,  that  past  held  for  her? 

Her  hand  resting  in  his,  her  eyes  upturned  to  his 
thoughtful,  down-bent  face,  he  was  listening  to  the 
musical  tones  so  inexpressibly  dear  to  him, 

"  I  had  gone  through  so  much  trouble  .  .  .  had 
drunk  so  often  of  the  cup  of  bitterness  —  I  don't 
want  to  speak  of  those  old  sores,  to  rake  up  past 
sorrows;  but,  dear,  I  so  much  want  you  to  under- 
stand. Can  man's  nature  ever  really  comprehend 
woman's?  Has  God  made  this  possible?  *  Yes,' 
do  you  say?     Then  try  and  understand  how  this 


300  DIVIDED 

death-in-life  frame  of  mind  crept  over  me  as  one 
after  another  the  troubles  came  tumbling  about  my 
ears,  changing  my  very  nature;  so  that  I  stood  by, 
as  it  were,  watching  the  cruel  process  of  transforma- 
tion, watching  myself  change  from  a  wilful,  head- 
strong yet  sympathetic,  warm-hearted  girl  into  a 
sarcastic,  bitter,  hardened  woman  I  I  grew  sarcastic, 
then  hard  —  so  bitterly  hard  .  .  .  the  world  was 
wrong  ...  I  was  a  martyr  .  .  .  life  held  nothing 
but  blanks  .  .  .  death  was  the  only  remedy  —  till 
then  a  grim  holding  on  to  things  material  was  all 
that  was  left  us  I  " 

"  And  you  had  no  mother  —  no  woman-friend  — 
no  lover  to  whom  you  could  turn  in  your  loneliness, 
my  poor  darling?  "  Woodward  said,  in  his  deep, 
comfort-compelling  tones,  looking  down  steadily  into 
those  upturned,  gleaming  eyes. 

But  they  never  wavered. 

"  No  mother  and  no  lover ;  yet  both  and  more  in 
George  —  he  has  been  so  much  to  me  all  my  life 
long  .  .  .  and  one  of  the  troubles  was  when  he  left 
the  old  home  ...  I  had  him  close  at  hand  till 
then;  we  had  never  been  parted  since  the  day  I  got 
back  from  boarding-school  .  .  .  George  came  down 
to  Durban  to  meet  the  steamer  in  which  I  had  sailed 
from  Capetown  .  .  .  He  brought  me  back  with 
dear  mother  and  Babs  —  then  a  baby  of  only  three 
months." 

"  Your  mother  was  with  you  in  Durban?  " 

She  nodded. 

"  For  nearly  twelve  months.  That  was  the  begin- 


DIVIDED  301 

ning  of  all  our  troubles  —  her  health  failed  .  .  . 
she  was  an  invalid  after  her  return,  never  the  woman 
she  had  been,"  a  swift  bitterness  swept  over  her  face 
darkening  it  with  the  old,  heavy,  formidable  frown. 
"  She  used  to  lie  out  here  most  days;  and  helplessly, 
hopelessly,  we  four  —  father,  George,  Thane  and  I 
—  used  to  watch  her  sweet  life  ebbing  painlessly 
away  .  .  .  That  was  sorrow " 

The  sting  of  that  sorrow  lay  in  the  knowledge  that 
it  was  the  shock  of  the  evil  that  had  blighted  her 
own  young  life  on  its  threshold  which  had  sown  the 
seeds  of  death  in  the  gentle  bosom  of  her  devoted 
mother.     But  of  this  she  could  not  speak. 

"  That  was  hard,  my  darling;  I  can  sympathize," 
Woodward  said  tenderly,  and  Margery  understood 
that  he  referred  to  the  loss  of  his  own  parents. 

"  But  you  had  not  to  suffer  the  torment  of  know' 
ing  that  your  wilfulness  had  killed  your  mother." 
She  could  have  hurled  the  words  at  him  from  those 
red  lips  against  which  his  own  were  pressed.  But 
that  would  have  been  to  reveal  the  secret,  and  so  to 
lose  him;  to  have  spoken  these  words  would  have 
been  as  the  act  of  a  maniac  perishing  of  thirst,  who 
would  dash  from  his  parched  lips  the  cup  holding  sal- 
vation. Margery,  instead,  accepted  the  sympathy, 
the  love,  the  tenderness  of  her  lover  as  the  thirst- 
maddened,  dying  wanderer  in  the  parched  desert 
would  accept  the  liquid  drops  of  the  cool,  clear  wa- 
ter —  life-restoring,  life-giving  —  clutching  at  these 
as  his  sole  hope  of  salvation. 

"  I  had  the  care  of  Babs  always  —  from  the  very 


302  DIVIDED 

first,"  she  said,  slowly.  "  She  knows  no  other 
mother." 

"  You  have  been  a  mother  to  her;  Heaven  gave 
her  to  you  for  your  comfort,  dearest." 

Her  face  paled,  her  eyes  grew  enigmatic. 

"  I  am  a  mother  to  her,"  she  said,  "  and  Phil  —  " 
she  laid  her  hand  restrainingly  on  his  arm  —  "  you 
have  been  talking  about  wanting  to  marry  me,  but 
the  man  who  marries  me  has  to  take  Babs  along  with 
me." 

"  But,  of  course,  dearest;  Babs  shall  never  leave  us 
till  she  goes  to  her  husband's  home.  Don't  think 
you'll  get  rid  of  me  in  that  way,  Margery,"  he 
laughed,  moving  to  sit  beside  her  on  the  couch  and 
drawing  her  within  his  arms.  She  rested  her  head 
on  his  shoulder,  intoxicated  by  the  joy  of  his  near 
presence. 

"  Forget  the  past  with  its  dark  hours,"  he  urged. 
"  Think  of  our  future  together;  of  the  love  that  will 
brighten  life  for  you  —  for  both  of  us.  We  know 
trouble  must  come,  but  love  atones;  my  love  to  you 
for  all  the  evils  of  the  past,  dearest." 

She  clung  to  him  as  though  she  feared  to  lose  him. 

"Oh,  Phil,  I  do  think  of  it,  and  it  frightens 
me  .  .  .  your  love  has  come  to  mean  so  much  to  me 
...  I  could  not  sleep  last  night  for  thinking  how 
much  you  mean  to  me  ,  .  .  and  something  dark  and 
evil  kept  whispering  in  my  ears,  and  in  my  heart,  that 
I  should  lose  you  —  that  this  gift  of  happiness 
wasn't  for  me  .  .  .  and  I  was  miserable  ...  I 
longed  so  intensely  to  have  the  chance  of  telling  you 


DIVIDED  303 

all  that  was  in  my  heart,  of  letting  you  know  how  I 
had  loved  you  through  all  this  time  past  when  I 
have  showed  you  only  my  worst  side  ...  I  thought : 
'  Before  morning  he  will  have  repented;  he  will  have 
seen  his  folly  and  changed  his  mind ; '  and  I  longed 
for  the  dawn  to  bring  the  morning,  yet  dreaded  what 
this  morning  might  bring." 

Her  head  was  lifted,  her  eyes  were  tracing  every 
line  of  his  face,  every  curve  and  contour  of  his  well- 
moulded  features,  every  look  she  recognized,  cher- 
ished and  dwelt  upon.  He  was  a  lover  worth  hav- 
ing. Before  the  magnetism  of  his  near  presense  she 
was  unable  to  fathom  the  magnitude  of  this  precious 
cup  of  salvation  held  to  her  parched  lips.  She  was 
again  the  inexperienced  girl,  grasping  at  the  mystery 
that  hides  beneath  the  surface  of  all  things;  capti- 
vated, and  intimidated,  and  fascinated  by  that  over- 
whelming magic  of  life  which  again  with  greater  in- 
sistence was  thrusting  itself  upon  her.  The  gleam 
in  her  eyes,  the  smile  on  her  lips,  dazzled  and  intoxi- 
cated the  sober-natured,  level-headed  Woodward 
and,  as  she  looked  up  at  him,  something  hitherto  un- 
known within  his  experience  of  himself  —  a  passion, 
rough  and  deep  and  beyond  himself  —  swept  over 
him,  teaching  him  his  own  capacity  for  love.  With  a 
low  murmur  he  drew  her  closer  within  his  arms, 
pressing  fervid  kisses  on  that  pale,  impassioned 
face. 

"  Change  my  mind !  Give  you  up !  Margery, 
don't  utter  such  heresy!  Don't  lie  awake  thinking 
such  absurdities!    'Give  you  up*?'  when  you  are 


304  DIVIDED 

the  woman  I  have  waited  for  all  through  the  long 
past  years  I  How  lonely  and  empty  and  starved  they 
seem  to  me,  now  —  since  I  have  known  you  I  And 
to  think  I  have  been  led  across  ocean  and  continent 
to  this  far-off,  solitary  corner  of  the  Transvaal  back- 
veldt  to  find  you !  God  has  been  good  I  "  he  ex- 
claimed, reverently.  "  He  has  brought  us  together 
to  fulfil  our  lives!  Without  each  other,  our  lives 
must  remain  incomplete.  Think  of  all  life  will 
mean  for  us  —  for  you  and  me  together,  my  dearest? 
You  have  taught  me  what  love  means  —  how  a  man 
has  it  in  him  to  love !  I  love  you  as  a  man  loves  a 
woman,  with  all  the  force  and  strength  of  his  man- 
hood. Don't  you  understand  what  you  are  to  me, 
Margery?  —  the  woman  I  must  love,  come  what 
may  —  nothing  can  make  any  difference  to  that." 

"  No  thing  1 "  she  hugged  her  secret  to  her  breast. 

There  were  tears  in  her  gleaming  eyes;  a  deep, 
sweet  note  of  joy  echoed  through  her  low  bell-tones. 

"  Phil,  love  like  ours  can't  end  with  life  —  there 
must  be  a  world  beyond  this !  " 

Proud-natured,  iron-willed  as  she  was,  yet  in  this 
hour  of  her  confession  of  the  strength  of  the  love  she 
bore  him  her  pride  lay  trampled  in  the  dust  beneath 
the  force  of  that  strong  passion.  Her  lofty  disdain, 
her  fierce  independence,  her  implacable  reserve,  all 
were  cast  aside  and  she  was  simply  a  woman,  loving 
tenderly  and  openly  and  unashamedly,  just  in  the 
same  womanly  fashion  as  others  of  her  sex  at  whom, 
in  the  days  of  her  hardness  of  heart,  she  had  mocked 
and  scoffed. 


VII 


It  was  a  week  later.  Aletta  had  obtained  her  wish, 
and  had  got  Jo  settled  in  with  her  at  the  Top  Farm. 
She  made  no  outspoken  objection  to  Margery's  fre- 
quent presence  there.  Babs,  because  of  some  hard 
words  against  Thane  which  Aletta  had  spoken  in 
her  presence  —  and  which  the  child  had  instantly 
and  openly  and  vehemently  resented  —  had  declined 
ever  after  to  continue  her  share  of  the  daily  visits  to 
be  paid  to  George's  home.  It  fell,  therefore,  to  Mar- 
gery's lot  to  keep  guard. 

"  I  can't  feel  sure  that  my  threat  about  Bouwer 
being  arrested  as  a  spy,  if  he  was  seen  about,  has 
really  frightened  him  off,"  she  told  Thane,  on  her 
return  late  one  afternoon. 

Her  brother's  heavy  brow  creased  into  a  frown. 
Seldom,  indeed,  would  he  bear  patiently  the  slightest 
reference  to  George.  Indeed,  throughout  those  days 
and  months  of  suspense,  his  temper  so  instantane- 
ously flared  into  so  fierce  a  flame  of  heat  upon  the 
slightest  provocation,  that  no  one  except  Margery 
ever  cared  to  face  its  fury. 

He  strode  half-way  down  the  passage,  then 
turned,  with  a  pale  anger  on  his  swarthy  face,  to 
breathe  hotly  in  her  ear: 

305 


3o6  DIVIDED 

"  If  that  damn  scouiidrel's  been  there,  I'll  have  it 
out  of  Jo." 

"  Thane  I  —  then  you've  been  seeing  her?  "  Dis- 
tress was  in  Margery's  tones.  *'  Aletta  promised 
she'd  keep  her  from  you." 

"Seen  her  I"  he  repeated,  fiercely;  "when  she 
comes  creeping  —  every  chance  she  gets  —  along  the 
river  below  the  lands,  or  up  the  garden  as  often  as 
not  if  those  damn  sentry's  eyes  are  turned  the  other 
way.  Dash  it  all  I  can  I  stir  without  seeing  her? 
Can  I  get  up  or  lie  down  without  seeing  her?  It's 
your  fault;  you  put  her  at  the  cottage;  you  insisted 
on  her  going  there " 

"  To  help  George,"  Margery  interrupted,  angrily. 
"  Thane,  it's  cruel  and  wicked  of  you  I  It's  abomi- 
nable  " 

He  caught  her  up  sharply.  "  What's  that?  "  he 
growled. 

"  Thane,  aren't  we  in  trouble  enough  as  it  is,  with 
this  endless  war  —  and  George  kept  out  there?  "  she 
questioned,  imploringly.  "  Oh,  Thane,  if  you  would 
but  try  and  get  over  this  stupid,  mad  temper;  this 
raging  against  everyone  and  everything  about  you! 
How  can  that  help?  The  war  is  a  horror,  an  un- 
speakable curse  —  we  all  know  it,  and  it  hurts  us  all 

—  but  we've  got  to  bear  it  .  .  .  Only  to  help  George 

—  that's  all  I  think  of;  and,  Thane,  if  you  were  in 
your  right  senses,  acting  as  a  man  should  act,  you 
would  be  helping  me  to  get  him  back  and  to  keep 
Aletta  from  getting  into  mischief,  so  that  he  may  find 


DIVIDED  307 

all  well  when  he  gets  back;  instead  of  going  on  as 
you  are  doing,  acting  like  one  possessed,  and  fooling 
still  after  that  poor  girl " 

The  rage,  boiling  in  his  heart,  was  puffing  out  the 
veins  in  his  throat  and  temples  till  they  stood  tense 
and  sharp  as  swollen  whip-cord;  his  eyes  shot  fire. 
"Damnation I"  he  growled.  "Women  have  no 
sense  I  "  Then  his  voice  sank  lower.  "  Can't  you 
see  I'm  keepin'  in  with  the  girl  for  George's  sake?  " 
he  asked,  vehemently.  "  How  otherwise  are  we  to 
find  out  about  Bouwer,  and  the  devilish  scheme  he 
and  that  hell-cat  up  yonder  are  planning  together? 
You'd  prefer  that  they  run  George  into  a  noose, 
would  you*?  Damn  it  all !  are  you  the  only  one  who 
thinks  for  him?  " 

Then,  flinging  himself  on  his  heel,  he  was  gone^ 
muttering  darkly.  Margery  followed  him  as  he 
strode  from  the  house  across  the  front  yard  to  his 
bedroom.  She  stood  in  the  low  doorway  opening 
into  the  little  apartment,  watching  his  impatient 
movements  as  he  flung  himself  here  and  there  about 
the  room. 

"Thane,  don't  get  angry  with  me;"  she  Im- 
plored, "  after  all,  we  must  work  together,  you  and 
I.  You  are  the  only  one  I  can  turn  to  ...  of 
.course,  I  know  you  are  just  as  anxious  about  George 
as  I  am." 

"  Not  a  rap !  "  he  swore,  flinging  things  about  in 
all  directions  as  he  collected  his  belongings.  "  Why 
the  hell  should  I  be  anxious  over  a  fellow  who  has 


3o8  DIVIDED 

coolly  ridden  off  to  shoot  down  his  —  here,  steady, 
Margery;  what  the  devil  are  you  up  to?" 

For  she  had  flown  at  him  in  a  fury. 

"  Thane,  I  won't  allow  even  you  to  utter  such 
vile  lies  of  George." 

"  Well,  then,  clear  out  of  my  room !  Who  asked 
you  to  come  here,  riling  me?  What  the  plague  you 
women  are  I  —  for  ever  hanging  on  to  a  man,  tor- 
menting him  like  the  very  fiend !  " 

He  flung  his  coat  over  his  arm,  snatched  up  his 
pipe  from  the  table,  felt  after  his  tobacco-pouch,  and 
pushing  past  his  sister  in  the  doorway  strode  off  in 
the  direction  of  the  corn-lands. 

The  wearied  reapers  were  preparing  to  wend  their 
homeward  way  after  the  labours  of  the  long  day. 
Thane  kept  such  of  them  as  could  be  spared  from  the 
evening  duties  in  the  farm-yard,  setting  them  afresh 
to  the  work  in  which  he  took  a  hand,  working  like 
one  demented  until,  darkness  descending,  men  and 
master  were  obliged  to  desist.  When  at  last  they 
trudged  back  to  the  homestead  —  grumbling  to  each 
other  that  the  young  baas  had  turned  slave-driver, 
and  wishing  unanimously  for  the  return  of  the  elder 
brother  —  he  lingered  behind  until  the  little  party 
were  well  out  of  sight  and  hearing.  Then  whistling 
a  tune,  low  and  insistent  and  oft-repeated,  he  made 
his  way  across  the  stubble  of  the  shorn  fields  to  the 
river-side. 

Knee-deep  among  the  swaying  rushes  on  the  op- 
posite bank  stood  a  woman's  form.    The  light  dress 


DIVIDED  309 

quickly  betrayed  her.  "  She's  there,  sure  enough  — 
waiting  on  the  chance  of  my  going  home  along  the 
river-path,"  thought  Thane,  and  to  save  the  walk  up 
to  the  bridge,  over  which  he  might  cross  to  her  dry- 
shod,  he  stooped  down  and  pulled  off  his  veldtschoen^ 
then  prepared  to  wade  the  stream  at  a  shallow  spot. 

Johanna,  following  his  every  movement,  rushed 
to  the  very  edge  of  the  water  to  meet  him,  and  while 
his  feet  and  ankles  were  still  washed  by  the  ripple 
of  the  stream  her  outstretched  hands  and  arms  en- 
circled him.  His  coat  flung  over  his  bared  arms,  the 
shoes  held  in  his  hands,  he  did  not  attempt  to  re- 
turn her  embrace.  Instead,  he  threw  back  his  head 
defiantly  while  with  a  strange,  forbidding  look  in  his 
dark  eyes  he  gazed  intently  into  her  face  —  paler  and 
thinner  now  than  on  that  evening  when  she  had 
trampled  with  set  purpose  upon  her  higher  instincts 
and  finer  feelings,  and  had  given  the  reins  to  her 
wild,  soul-searing  passion  in  her  bold  determination 
to  bind  her  lover  by  the  simple,  human,  but  all-pow- 
erful tie  of  nature's  relationship. 

Yet,  though  paler  and  somewhat  thinner  than  on 
that  memorable  evening,  Johanna's  face  in  its  new 
aspect  of  tragic  suffering  appeared  a  thousandfold 
more  attractive  and  more  alluring  to  the  fierce, 
sombre  eyes  of  the  man  obsessed  by  the  passion  and 
tragedy  of  his  life  —  a  tragedy  which  had  overtaken 
him  through  the  very  force  of  the  love  he  bore  to  his 
brother  and  to  the  Dutch  girl ;  and  which  had  over- 
whelmed him,  leaving  him  no  further  room  in  his 


310  DIVIDED 

imaginings  for  all  the  nobler  qualities  at  which  he 
once  had  aimed  steadily,  but  which  in  these  last 
months  of  fury  and  torture  he  had  trampled  delib- 
erately beneath  his  feet.  As  he  gazed  down  upon  her 
in  silence  she,  too,  noted  that  he  was  changed,  that 
his  face  was  sharpened,  and  that  there  were  lines 
about  his  eyes  which  told  of  sleepless  nights  and 
tortured  days.  They  were  in  sympathy,  co-mates  in 
suffering,  and  the  thought  brought  to  Johanna's  deso- 
late heart  a  strange  sense  of  relief  and  elation.  Thane 
had  not  forgotten  her,  had  not  ceased  to  love  her, 
despite  his  savage  repulses  on  the  few  occasions 
when  she  had  been  enabled  to  steal  unseen  by  watch- 
ful eyes  into  his  presence.  He,  too,  she  recognized, 
tortured  by  suffering,  had  trampled  upon  the  finer 
feelings  of  his  nature;  had  indulged  deliberately  in 
giving  the  reins  to  those  senseless,  savage  outbursts 
of  fury  that  had  hitherto  lain  dormant,  held  in  check 
within  the  depths  of  his  fiery  nature.  Had  she  but 
known  it.  Thane  had  entered  already  upon  the 
downward  course  which  George  had  dreaded  for 
him.  There  was  more  of  the  brute  than  the  man  in 
him  as  he  strode  through  the  corn-lands  towards  the 
girl  who  held  his  passion.  The  sufferings  entailed 
by  the  war  had  changed  him  —  mentally,  morally, 
and  physically  —  during  the  past  six  months,  almost 
beyond  recognition. 

Johanna  was  a  well-grown  woman,  but  though  she 
lifted  herself  to  full  height,  pulling  him  towards  her, 
she  failed  to  touch  with  her  own  the  thickly-bearded 


DIVIDED  311 

lips  of  the  young  Hercules  before  her.  She  fell  back 
with  a  little  cry;  but: 

"What  are  you  doing  here,  Jo?  You'll  be  get- 
ting yourself  into  trouble  if  you  come  hanging  about 
here  after  dark,"  was  all  he  said  coldly,  pushing  past 
her  as  he  spoke. 

She  clasped  her  hands  together  in  an  outburst  of 
vehement  protest ;  but  Thane,  apparently  paying  not 
the  slightest  heed  to  her  distress,  sat  himself  down 
upon  a  tuft  of  the  bowed  bulrushes  growing  upon  a 
higher  ridge  of  the  bank,  and  with  slow  deliberation 
proceeded  to  draw  on  his  foot-gear.  Then  he 
stretched  himself  at  full  length  upon  the  sandy, 
grass-grown  stretch  of  sward  fringed  by  the  rushes 
and  bordered  overhead  by  a  line  of  low-growing 
thorn  bushes.  The  pungent  odours  of  the  soft 
cushions  of  their  golden  blooms  was  wafted  grate- 
fully to  his  tired  senses.  A  flowering  avont-bloem  — 
its  pure  white  loveliness  unseen  by  mortal  eyes  — 
flung  insistent  whiffs  of  overpowering,  perfumed 
sweetness  through  the  languorous  night  to  where  the 
young  man  brooded  darkly,  stretched  on  his  side,  Jo- 
hanna standing  apart,  disconsolate  and  wretched. 

The  silence  between  them  was  broken  by  his  voice. 

"  Sit  down,  Jo  .  .  .  here,  girl,  a  bit  nearer  — 
so,"  he  slipped  an  arm  around  her,  pulling  her  with 
a  rough  movement  that  comforted  her  within  his 
easy  embrace.  She  put  her  head  down  on  his  shoul- 
der and  the  hot  tears  fell  and  trickled  onto  his  rough, 
sun-browned  hand.    His  heart,  not  wont  to  relent, 


312  DIVIDED 

was  touched  by  the  feel  of  those  tears.  After  all, 
he  told  himself,  excusingly,  she  could  not  help  being 
a  Boer  .  .  .  that  was  no  fault  of  her  own  making 
.  .  .  yet  he  had  been  hard  on  her,  as  though  she  had 
played  a  trick  upon  him  —  had  changed  toward 
him  —  or  given  her  love  to  another. 

"  There,  there,  Jo,  give  over,  girl."  Margery 
would  scarcely  have  recognized  his  voice  of  the  late 
afternoon,  in  this  low,  tender,  love-fraught  appeal. 
"  See,  it  is  Thane  by  your  side.  .  .  Crying  in  my 
arms,  are  you,  little  woman*?  "  But  Jo,  still  weep- 
ing bitterly,  crouched  head  downward  upon  his  shoul- 
der, so  that  Thane,  in  desperation,  sat  up,  and  tak- 
ing her  bodily  within  his  mighty  arms  she  lay  cradled 
upon  his  broad  breast,  crushed  within  his  powerful 
clasp. 

"Jo,"  he  presently  whispered  hoarsely,  lifting 
his  lips  from  hers,  "  you  should  have  been  loved  as 
no  woman  ever  has  been  loved  —  and  this  damned 
war  has  spoiled  it  all !  " 

Her  sun-bonnet  had  fallen  back  from  off  her  dusky 
hair,  and  Thane  —  as  he  gazed  intently  from  heavy, 
down-bent  brows  upon  the  soft,  smooth  roundness  of 
the  pale  cheek  swept  by  the  black  lashes  which  veiled 
the  fire  and  passion  of  those  dark  eyes ;  upon  the  rosy 
lips  and  white  brow;  upon  the  freshness  and  sweet- 
ness of  all  the  womanhood  of  the  world  centred  for 
him  in  the  person  and  personality  of  Johanna  du 
Bruyn  —  fell  afresh  under  the  spell  of  the  exacting 
passion  which  enchained  him  to  this  daughter  of  the 


DIVIDED  313 

enemy.  He  was  a  hard  man  —  one  to  whom  forgive- 
ness of  an  enemy  came  hardly  —  if  at  all.  But  he 
was,  too,  a  man  of  strong  passions  —  the  strongest 
was  his  sense  of  brotherliness  with  George,  the  in- 
tensest  his  sense  of  mateship  with  the  Boer  girl,  the 
most  violent  his  suddenly-conceived  implacable  hate 
against  the  Boer  people.  For  this  hate  he  held  the 
war  responsible;  he  cursed  it  as  its  fell  nature  stood 
revealed  before  him  in  this  hour  of  his  passionate  de- 
sire for  Johanna  —  of  his  iron  determination  to  re- 
sist that  desire.  In  this  hour  the  realism  of  War  in 
all  its  barbarity,  its  ruthlessness,  its  savagery,  stood 
naked  and  apparent  —  divorced  entirely  from  that 
crude,  conventional  idea  of  modern  warfare  enter- 
tained by  the  idealist  or  the  unimaginative  living 
far  from  its  actual  presence,  unable  to  conceive  of 
its  true  conditions  and  vital  consequences.  Thane 
Brandon  saw  War  —  not  painted  realistically  — 
but  an  actual  and  living  Presence,  standing  immov- 
able, stark  and  grim,  across  his  path,  hindering  his 
desire;  a  monster  whose  merciless  visage  was  blight- 
ing not  only  his  life  and  Johanna's  but  the  life  and 
prosperity  and  mutual  welfare  of  their  country  and 
people;  spreading  ruin  and  devastation  and  suffering 
throughout  the  land,  bringing  unspeakable  misery 
upon  every  homestead  and  family  in  the  land.  More 
than  this,  he  visualized  the  baneful  results  of  this 
conflict  —  the  stirring  to  life  of  bitter  hatred  and 
cruel  memories  for  the  years  to  come  between  the 
two  white  races  of  the  sub-Continent.     He  looked 


314  DIVIDED 

into  his  own  heart,  and  felt  the  extent  to  which  the 
war  had  raised  and  brought  to  the  surface  his  own 
innate  savagery.  As  with  the  individual  so  with  the 
nation,  he  argued  in  savage  mood;  and  told  himself 
with  a  rough  oath  that  he  had  better  be  up  and  going, 
for  from  henceforth,  because  of  this  actuality  of  the 
war,  never  could  there  be  a  coming  together  between 
himself  and  this  daughter  of  the  enemy;  the 
"  damned  war,"  as  he  had  just  told  her,  "  had  spoiled 
it  all!" 


VIII 

But  could  he  leave  her?  Could  he  give  her  up? 
As  she  lay  there  in  his  arms  —  they  two  alone  with 
only  the  closing  night  about  them;  the  sweet  flower- 
odours  stirring  their  senses,  the  ripple  of  the  unrest- 
ing stream  a  soft,  strong  voice  of  love  —  enticing, 
alluring,  subduing,  appealing  to  those  deepest  and 
most  powerful  and  most  responsive  impulses  inbred 
in  human  nature  —  Thane,  pressing  hot  kisses  upon 
those  upturned  lips  and  eyes,  upon  that  white  brow 
shaded  by  the  blackness  of  the  falling  hair,  felt  his 
heart  fail  within  him  at  the  thought  that  he  must  re- 
sign her.  Yet  his  was  too  strong  a  nature  to  glance 
at  the  possibility  of  going  back  upon  his  word;  to 
break  the  vows  his  hot  lips  had  uttered.  In  this 
moment  of  deepest  passion  and  longing  and  desire, 
even  as  he  felt  himself  carried  away  by  the  vehe- 
mence of  his  great  love  for  her,  by  the  sense  of  her 
utter  surrender  of  herself  to  that  love.  Thane  Bran- 
don never  for  a  moment  glanced  at  the  possibility 
of  their  union. 

"  The  damned  war  had  spoiled  it  all !  "  Yet,  Jo- 
hanna, under  the  spell  of  his  presence,  forgot  for  a 
time  the  deadly  import  of  his  words.    Under  his  mas- 

2^5 


3i6  DIVIDED 

terful  touch  she  forgot  to  weep,  and  grew  radiant 
and  lovely  beneath  his  down-bent,  glowering,  all- 
devouring  gaze.  With  a  low,  faint  sigh  of  happiness 
and  indescribable  content,  her  slim  fingers  were  flung 
around  his  bared  neck,  drawing  his  face  closer  to 
hers.  Her  slumbrous  eyes,  glancing  upward,  black 
against  the  whiteness  of  her  face,  appeared  as  though 
lit  from  within  their  swarthy  depths  by  the  unex- 
tinguishable  fires  smouldering  low  within  the  vast 
well  of  some  cavernous  volcano  crater.  Had  he  re- 
lented? she  asked  herself.  Had  love  for  her  won  this 
miracle  ?  Had  she  drawn  him  to  herself  for  her  own 
lawful  possession*?  The  extraordinary  bitterness 
which  the  war  had  awakened  within  him  against  her 
people  recurred  to  her,  and  she  doubted  whether  she 
yet  held  securely  as  her  man  this  obdurate,  impla- 
cable, yet  dearly-desired  co-mate. 

"  You  won't  give  me  up?  You'll  never  again  try 
to  drive  me  from  you? "  she  questioned,  half-im- 
ploringly,  half-triumphantly ;  for  was  she  not  in  his 
arms?  —  and  could  she  not  feel  the  beating  of  the 
fiery  pulses  leaping  within  his  veins ;  and  discern  the 
deep,  shuddering  thrill  that  stirred  through  the  giant 
frame  as  her  cool,  red  lips  touched  the  hollow  of  the 
mighty  chest  that  showed  white  as  milk  below  the 
line  marking  the  red-brown  of  the  sun-kissed  throat 
and  neck?  He  caught  her  fingers  in  the  old  master- 
ful fashion,  crushing  them  unconsciously  in  his  vise- 
like grip,  and  she  laughed  aloud  despite  the  pain,  for 
that  unconscious  grip  spoke  in  nature's  own  Ian- 


DIVIDED  317 

guage  of  the  depth  and  reality  of  his  emotion.  She 
held  him  captive  against  the  mighty  strivings  of  his 
iron  will  —  this  man  for  whom  she  had  dared  much. 
*'  I  am  a  starving  beggar  set  before  food  that  I 
may  not  touch  —  so  I  must  starve  and  die,  my  girl 

—  must  starve  and  die,  for  I  may  not  eat,"  he  re- 
peated doggedly. 

She  crept  closer  within  his  arms. 

"  But,  why.  Thane?  —  why?  "  she  whispered  as 
in  supplication,  "  since  you  are  the  one  man  in  the 
world  for  me  —  and  since  I  am  with  you  —  why 
starve?  " 

"  This  hellish  war !  "  he  groaned.  "  It  has  put  a 
bar  between  us,  Jo  —  between  your  people  and 
mine." 

"  Forget  it,  sweetheart,"  she  implored.  "  This  is 
life,"  she  said,  simply,  "  our  love  —  the  fulfillment 
of  our  love  —  our  being  together  always  as  man  and 
wife.     What  counts  against  that?  " 

"  The  war  counts,"  he  said,  more  in  despair  than 
anger.  "  I'm  not  one  of  the  forgettin'  sort  —  not 
good  at  passing  things  over." 

With  a  quick  movement  he  put  her  from  him. 
She  looked  up,  trembling  and  forlorn;  and  heavily 

—  as  though  against  his  will  —  he  took  her  back 
within  the  close  pressure  of  his  arms,  while  his  hot, 
sullen  lips  sought  hers. 

"  Then  you  must  forgive  me  for  being  a  Boer," 
she  implored  softly. 

But :  "  I  am  not  good  at  forgiving,"  he  returned  in 


3i8  DIVIDED 

the  same  crushed  tones.  "  I  can  think  of  nothing  but 
you,  Jo ;  yet  I  can  think  of  nothing  but  the  war  — 
that  separates  us  eternally." 

"  The  war  can't  separate  us  —  life  can't  separate 
us,  for  the  passion  of  our  love  is  in  our  blood,"  she 
insisted,  with  a  low,  emphatic  conviction;  "  nor  can 
death  separate  us.  Thane,  for  we  love,  too,  with  our 
spirits  —  with  all  the  mind,  and  heart,  and  soul 
within  us." 

"  Our  love  is  done  for  as  far  as  this  life  goes,  Jo," 
he  said  hoarsely.  "  Don't  rant,  girl;  we  love  as  hu- 
man beings,  with  every  hot  drop  of  the  good  red 
stream  of  blood  flowing  through  our  bodies,  quicken- 
ing us  as  natural  man  and  natural  woman  ...  I 
speak  for  this  life;  I  know  nothing  of  any  other." 

"It  isn't  done  for,"  she  cried  passionately;  "we 
shall  spend  the  years  together  ...  I  won't  give  you 
up  I  the  war  shan't  take  you  from  me  I  Oh,  Thane  I 
Thane  I  you'd  never  be  so  cruel  as  to  let  it  come  be- 
tween us?" 

He  slipped  his  hand  over  hers. 

"Jo,  you  must  be  content  with  seeing  me  .  .  . 
don't  ask  for  impossibilities  .  .  .  you  promised  to 
be  content  if  I  came  but  this  once  ...  I  am  here 
—  I  know  I  ought  not  to  be  —  but  you  asked  and  I 
yielded." 

"  Thane,  it  is  hard  —  cruelly  hard !  Think  of  the 
months  they  have  kept  us  apart." 

"  My  own  will  kept  us  apart,"  he  said  doggedly. 

"  You  were  cruel,  inhuman,"  she  sobbed.    "  Did 


DIVIDED  319 

you  cast  a  thought  to  my  trouble?  Night  and  day, 
night  and  day  it  is  with  me  —  a  part  of  myself  —  a 
part  of  you  —  of  us  both  .  .  .  that  is  why  I  can't 
forget  it." 

He  moved  restlessly,  while  his  brow  darkened. 
He  looked  searchingly  through  the  dim  light  on  the 
white  face  pillowed  upon  his  breast.  Inwardly  he 
cursed  any  complication  that  might  arise  to  add  to 
the  already  hideous  nightmare  of  their  ill-starred 
passion.  Jo  caught  his  glance,  his  frown,  his  rest- 
less movement,  and  understood. 

"Thane,  I'm  not  blaming  you;  I  never  should 
blame  you  —  not  even  if  the  worst  came  to  me  .  .  . 
If  fault  there  was,  the  fault  was  mine  and  never 
should  I  repent  .  .  .  no,  sweetheart,  I'm  not  built 
that  way  —  like  those  women  ashamed  to  have 
proved  their  love.  .  .  We  have  loved  in  a  big  way. 
Thane,  you  and  I  —  haven't  we?  Whenever  I  am 
most  miserable  away  from  you,  I  remember  I  have 
given  freely,  fearlessly,  without  asking  or  exacting 
promises  from  you,  and  it  fills  me  with  happiness.  I 
say  to  myself:  'I  grudged  him  nothing;  my  love 
wasn't  a  poor,  stunted,  puny  little  thing  —  it  was  as 
wide  and  deep  and  strong  as  it  is  possible  for  human 
love  to  be,'  and  when  I  think  this,  I  am  content." 

*'  You  loved  me  too  well,"  he  groaned,  miserable 
at  this  fresh  revelation  of  the  strength  of  the  love  he 
must  renounce.  "  Jo,  little  woman,  I've  been  a 
brute  to  you  —  yet  we  must  part." 

"  I  tempted  you,  Thane  .  .  .  yet  don't  think  I 
am  sorry  for  that." 


320  DIVIDED 

"What  then"?"  he  asked,  moodily. 

She  slid  to  the  ground  at  his  feet  and  sat  huddled 
against  him,  her  cheek  resting  on  his  knees,  her  eyes 
upturned  in  a  side  glance  to  his  brooding  face. 

"If  the  little  one  came,"  she  said  slowly;  "it 
would  belong  to  us  both,  eh  ?  English,  like  its  father, 
yet  the  child  of  the  Boer  woman.  That  would  make 
it  right  Thane,  eh?  » 

He  started  and  shook  her  off,  horror  in  his  flaming 
eyes. 

"  *  Right '  !  Damnation !  Don't  you  complicate 
things,  Jo;  don't  try  to  be  over-clever!  I'm  not  a 
scrupulous  man.  .  .  If  such  a  thing  should  be,  I'd 
strangle  it  as  readily  as  I'd  squeeze  the  wind-pipe  of 
a  blind  puppy !  Don't  you  try  and  get  round  me  by 
talk  like  that  —  there's  no  reason*?"  his  big  brown 
hand  fell  heavily  on  her  shoulder.  "  There's  no  rea- 
son"? "  he  questioned,  fiercely. 

Out  of  the  set,  white  face  the  wide  black  eyes 
looked  up  defiantly  into  his.  Then  Johanna 
shrugged  her  shoulders  and  turned  slowly  away. 

"  Come  back,"  he  called,  harshly.     "  Come  back, 

Jo; "  then  he  swore;  then  he  caught  her  roughly  by 

the  arm,  twisted  her  round,  drew  her  forcibly  against 

his  breast  and  masterfully  demanded  forgiveness. 
*  *  *  * 

It  was  half  an  hour  later,  and  they  were  about  to 
part. 

"  Then,  as  soon  as  George  gets  back,  we'll  be  mar- 
ried? "  she  was  repeating,  in  tones  of  low  content. 


DIVIDED  321 

"  //  George  comes  back  "...  That  much  Thane 
had  conceded  to  her  ...  In  return  he  knew  all  — 
much  for  which  he  would  never  have  asked.  For, 
since  Johanna  had  with  deliberation  chosen  him  as 
mate  and  husband  —  though  as  yet  unbound  by  law 
of  State  or  Church  —  with  equal  deliberation  she 
had  won  him  to  the  promise  of  marriage  with  a  Boer 
woman  conditional  upon  George's  safe  return  by 
voluntarily  imparting  fullest  information  —  not 
only  upon  the  point  of  Bouwer's  visits  and  news  of 
George,  but  of  the  deeply-laid  scheme  whereby  he 
was  to  be  drawn  into  action  in  the  big  ambush  which 
the  burghers  of  van  der  Merwe's  commando  had 
secretly  planned,  whereby  the  Irregulars  were  to  be 
entrapped,  and  cut  up,  and  driven  back  again  from 
off  the  soil  of  the  Northern  Transvaal. 


IX 


Weary,  yet  elated  by  a  sense  of  success  where 
George's  interests  were  concerned  —  and  by  a  sense 
of  triumph  to  come,  whereby  the  scheme  to  ambush 
and  ensnare  the  Irregulars  would  be  outwitted  and 
turned  into  an  ambuscade  of  the  wily  Boer  com- 
mando itself  —  Thane,  after  seeing  Jo  within  sight 
of  the  lights  twinkling  from  the  open  door  of  the 
Top  Farm  homestead,  returned  to  the  post-house. 
He  sat  long  after  supper  and  after  the  house  was  in 
darkness,  smoking,  and  turning  over  in  his  mind 
Johanna's  tale  of  the  Boer  plans.  In  seeking  her 
that  evening,  he  had  not  been  actuated  by  any  idea 
of  worming  from  her  news  of  such  a  nature.  His 
sole  idea  in  yielding  to  her  request  for  a  meeting 
had  been  prompted  by  the  desire  to  learn  news  of 
his  brother's  welfare,  to  acquire  any  information  that 
would  lead  to  the  capture  of  Bouwer,  and  to  the 
frustration  of  any  scheme  afoot  designed  with  the 
object  of  circumventing  his  brother's  evident  desire 
to  return  to  his  home. 

Quite  unconsciously,  however,  he  had  acquired 
precise  information  of  a  deep-laid  plan  on  the  part 
of  the  Boers,  who  were  about  to  leave  their  safe 
retreat  and  venture  within  range  of  the  advancing 

322 


DIVIDED  323 

forcas.  Unseen  themselves,  they  were  to  open  out 
a  direct  and  withering  fire  upon  the  Irregulars  as 
they  passed  the  flank  of  the  low  ridges  swelling  away 
from  the  farmstead  known  as  Venter's  Hoek. 
Through  means  of  their  spies,  they  appeared  well 
acquainted  with  the  very  day  on  which,  as  Thane 
knew,  the  contingents  following  upon  the  heels  of 
the  Boers  had  arranged  to  pass  the  farmstead  on 
their  way  north. 

The  information,  he  knew,  even  as  it  dropped 
from  Johanna's  red  lips,  was  of  a  nature  inestimable 
in  its  worth  to  the  army  of  the  Irregulars  who  were 
the  most  interested  in  the  matter.  Now,  as  he 
smoked,  his  heart  bounded  fiercely  within  him  as  he 
saw  the  revenge  which,  by  speaking,  he  was  able  to 
bring  upon  the  Boers.  George,  Johanna  had 
learned  from  Bouwer,  was  to  follow  more  slowly 
upon  the  swift  drive  of  the  main  column  of  the  com- 
mando. Therefore,  reckoning  that  the  Irregulars, 
aware  of  the  Boer  movements,  could  attack  them 
twenty-four  hours  earlier  than  the  hour  planned  by 
them  for  the  ambush,  Thane  arrived  at  the  conclu- 
sion that  George,  with  van  der  Merwe  and  certain 
of  those  interested  in  the  matter  of  transport,  would 
certainly  be  far  in  the  rear  of  the  meeting-place  of 
the  belligerents.  Once  it  became  known  that  the 
commando  had  been  beaten  and  dispersed,  his 
brother  would  be  at  liberty  to  return  unmolested. 

Thane  Brandon,  at  the  bare  thought  of  that  re- 
turn, hugged  a  new  joy  to  his  bleeding  yet  fiercely- 


324  DIVIDED 

embittered  heart.  If  but  George  returned  safely,  he 
felt  he  could  forgive  all  else,  could  overlook  Jo- 
hanna's nationality  and  find  solace  and  comfort  in 
her  true,  loving  devotion. 

It  was  his  duty,  he  told  himself,  after  he  had  thus 
threshed  out  the  matter,  to  hesitate  no  longer  be- 
cause of  the  manner  in  which  the  information  had 
been  obtained  but  to  lay  it  immediately  before  the 
authorities  —  before  the  officers  of  the  contingent 
immediately  concerned. 

"Did  you  hear  any  news  of  George?"  a  low 
voice  questioned.  He  turned,  and  saw  Margery 
emerging  from  the  darkness  of  the  passage.  The 
light  from  the  small  oil-lamp,  turned  low  and  burn- 
ing dim  from  the  distant  side-table,  flickered  on  her 
anxious  face  and  caught  at  the  red  gleams  in  her 
dark  hair  hanging  in  a  long,  loose  coil  over  her  white 
wrapper. 

Noiselessly  she  shut  the  door  behind  her,  and  came 
close  to  her  brother's  side.  Thane  laid  his  pipe  on 
the  table.  He  felt  it  would  be  a  relief  to  retail  Jo- 
hanna's story,  and  the  consequent  reflections  which 
weighted  his  mind.  The  habits  of  a  lifetime  had 
made  Margery  the  natural  repository  of  the  secrets 
of  the  family.  It  was  to  her  that  both  the  brothers 
turned  in  times  of  stress  or  trouble ;  her  advice  they 
recognized  as  invariably  sound,  her  help  invaluable, 
her  sympathy  assured  and  unfailing. 

She  stood  silently  listening,  with  downcast,  at- 
tentive face,  while  Thane  repeated  in  short,  strong 


DIVIDED  325 

language  the  gist  of  the  information  he  had  acquired. 
When  he  ceased  she  remained  silent,  turning  over 
in  her  mind  his  words  as  to  the  certainty  of  this  early 
attack  on  the  advancing  Boer  commando  ensuring 
George's  absence  from  the  engagement  between  the 
rival  forces.  Like  Thane,  she  rejoiced  at  the  idea 
of  the  dispersion  of  the  Boer  commando,  since  that 
meant  the  return  of  her  brother.  With  George 
safely  back  among  them,  with  the  confession  of 
Woodward's  love  ratified  and  confirmed  by  its  pub- 
lic acknowledgment,  Margery  felt  that  she  could 
then  venture  to  look  openly  in  the  face  of  her  new- 
born happiness,  to  dwell  with  a  certain  sense  of  se- 
curity upon  those  more  favourable  conditions  of  life 
opening  out  to  her. 

But  George  was  still  absent  among  the  combat- 
ants, and  the  hour  of  sharp  conflict  loomed  ominous 
and  imminent.  Her  heart  beat  low  with  dread,  she 
grew  faint  with  fear,  her  brain  reeled  before  the 
problem  of  securing  George's  safety. 

"  It's  an  infernal  tangle,"  Thane's  voice  went  on. 
"  The  girl  let  it  out  of  her  own  free  will  and  I  know 
it,  that's  the  mischief  ...  J  know  it.  Rather  than 
sit  tight  and  say  nothing  while  a  lot  of  our  chaps 
get  trapped  and  cut  up,  I'd  blow  my  brains  out  .  .  . 
you  see,  Margery,  the  Boers  would  have  them  tight 
there  —  I  know  that  part  so  well." 

"  You  can't  do  it,"  she  said,  firmly,  "  you  know 
this  plan  and  you  can't  keep  it  to  yourself.  .  . 
Think  of  George!     I  am  thankful.  Thane,  when  I 


326  DIVIDED 

think  of  him,  that  Jo  had  the  courage  and  the  good- 
ness of  heart  to  tell  you  of  this  diabolical  scheme 
...  I  shan't  ever  forget  this  service  she  has  done 
us,"  she  added,  significantly;  "she  has  thrown  in 
her  lot  with  us  and  we  must  stand  by  her." 

"All  very  well  .  .  .  but  this  damned  war,"  he 
grumbled,  hesitatingly.  Then  his  voice  changed 
and  he  admitted  somewhat  shamefacedly:  "I'd 
vowed  to  be  done  with  her  .  .  .  this  war  had  stirred 
up  hell  in  me  .  .  .  But  now  —  well,  when  George 
gets  back  I've  promised  we'll  get  tied  up." 

"  Thane,  I  am  glad  you've  promised  her  that  .  .  . 
she  deserves  it  .  .  .  you  have  done  right,"  she  ven- 
tured to  say.  Then  she  turned  to  the  business  in 
hand.     "  You've  not  yet  told  any  one?  "  she  asked. 

He  understood  that  the  question  concerned  the 
matter  of  moment,  and  replied : 

"  No,  I've  just  been  going  through  it  in  my  own 
mind  —  just  to  make  sure  before  putting  our  chaps 
up  to  this  business  of  the  attack  on  the  Boers  that 
it  could  be  carried  out  without  fear  of  George  being 
mixed  up  in  it  .  .  .  I'll  tell  Woodward  first  thing 
in  the  morning." 

"  Why  not  at  once*?  "  she  suggested.  "  He  may 
think  it  necessary  to  send  on  word  at  once  to  the 
camp." 

Thane  considered,  then  rose  and  moved  heavily  to 
the  outer  door. 

"  Very  probably  he'll  be  asleep,"  he  said  dubi- 
ously, turning  in  the  doorway  and  facing  his  sister. 


DIVIDED  327 

"  But  he  won't  in  the  very  least  mind  the  being 
disturbed,"  Margery  urged  eagerly.  She  followed 
him  on  to  the  verandah.  "  Hurry,  Thane  I  I'll 
wait  here,  and  you  bring  me  word  what  he  thinks 
had  best  be  done." 

Anxiety  kept  her  moving  —  kept  her  pacing  rest- 
lessly up  and  down  the  length  of  the  verandah.  It 
drove  her  into  the  open  night;  she  wandered  round 
the  front  premises,  catching  at  intervals  an  echo  of 
the  men's  voices  as  they  conversed  together  in  low, 
short  snatches  —  questioning,  debating.  The  night- 
breeze  fanned  her  cheek,  the  stars  lighted  the  hard, 
white  road  —  the  trail  running  to  north  and  south 
of  The  Outspan  —  embedded  in  the  wide-reaching 
expanse  of  the  veldt  surrounding  them  on  all  sides, 
stretching  to  the  limits  of  those  far-off  regions  where 
man  dealt  death  to  brother-man,  where  deadly  con- 
flict worked  its  horrible  havoc. 

Sickened  at  heart,  Margery,  with  violently  over- 
wrought senses,  looked  out  over  the  stillness  of  the 
sleeping  world  around,  groping  after  that  feeling 
of  ease  and  relief  brought  invariably  by  the 
contact  around  and  about  us  in  tangible  form 
and  shape  of  the  familiar  and  the  accustomed. 
Over  the  silent  plains  lay  that  profound,  deep- 
breathing  peace  which  can  only  be  known  far 
from  the  haunts  of  men.  Yet  beyond  this  scene 
of  peace  —  redolent  of  eternity  rather  than  of 
time  —  raged  the  murderous  strife  tearing  asunder 
the    heart    of    the    country.      War    was    hurtling 


328  DIVIDED 

out  of  existence  the  men  of  the  Mother-Country 
and  the  men  of  the  Mother-Land.  By  the  hand  of 
the  one  fell  the  sons  of  the  other.  Daily  by  shot 
and  shell  and  bullet,  by  wounds  and  fever  and  dis- 
ease, the  toll  of  life  was  being  taken;  fair  sons,  brave 
brothers,  gallant  husbands  and  fathers  —  '  the  best 
of  all  that  Time's  full  vintage  prest '  —  all  alike 
were  falling  victims  to  the  ruthless,  insatiable  god 
of  War.  In  vision  she  saw  the  battle-fields  — 
great  and  small  —  the  open  wastes,  the  mountain 
defiles,  the  fertile,  gently-undulating  slopes  and  val- 
leys and  plains  of  her  native  land  —  on  each  and  all 
alike  was  the  terrible  sight  of  men  hunting  down 
their  brother-men.  The  cracked  earth,  the  rocky 
soil,  the  rich  pastures  alike  drank  in  the  blood  of  its 
sons  and  the  blood  of  the  sons  of  the  great  Empire 
with  whom  they  were  at  odds  —  the  blood  of  hu- 
manity destroying  humanity!  Men  made  war; 
while  women  —  the  daughters  of  earth,  the  bearers 
of  men  —  tongue-tied  and  lip-locked  in  this  matter, 
looked  helplessly  on.  Men  were  the  destroyers  of 
men ;  women  bore  men,  yet  sat  voiceless  and  unheard 
in  the  council  chambers  of  the  nation  while  their 
co-partners  planned  war  and  war  wasted  and  poured 
out  upon  the  earth  the  fruit  of  their  labour  and 
travail.  Men  fought  and  slew,  and  conquered  and 
died  —  gamely,  gallantly,  senselessly  —  but  women, 
the  mothers  of  men,  in  darkened  homes  mourned 
because  of  the  waste,  "  To  what  purpose  was  this 
waste?  "  they  asked,  mutely,  for  they  perceived  that 


DIVIDED  329 

their  labour  and  travail  had  been  in  vain  —  that 
their  fruit-bearing  had  been  harvested  prematurely 
by  the  unsparing  reaper,  Death. 

*  "<«  *  5|! 

Booted  and  spurred,  Woodward  came  up  to  where 
she  stood.  "  You  were  right,"  he  said,  taking  her 
hand  in  his.  "  This  news  must  be  passed  on  at 
once." 

"  You  are  taking  it*?  "  she  asked. 

"  To  the  camp,"  he  replied,  briefly.  "  I  shall  be 
back  in  time  for  breakfast." 

She  nodded;  then  glanced  towards  the  stables 
where  Thane  was  putting  the  saddle  on  Buller,  his 
own  particularly  swift  riding-horse. 

"He's  lending  me  Buller,"  Woodward  smiled. 
"  It's  good  of  him  I  You  go  in  and  get  some  sleep, 
Margery,"  he  added,  suddenly  changing  his  tone  as 
he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  look  on  the  upturned  face. 
"  Don't  get  worrying  .  .  .  I'll  look  out  that  George 
gets  through  this  business  safely." 

Her  face  lighted  up. 

"  Phil !  .  .  .  I'm  mad  with  fear  —  sometimes  .  .  . 
if  only  George  were  safely  back  —  it  would  seem  too 
good  to  be  true,  the  having  you  both,"  she  added, 
simply. 

He  tightened  his  hold  on  her  hand. 

"  You'll  have  us  both,  dearest." 

The  next  moment  he  had  released  her;  and  stand- 
ing by  Thane's  side  she  watched  the  dark  shadow  of 
man  and  horse  as  it  disappeared,  swallowed  by  the 
night. 


X 


In  the  bar  and  on  the  stoep  groups  of  khaki-clad 
men  came  and  went  throughout  the  hot  summer 
morning,  drinking,  smoking  and  talking  —  always 
talking  —  discussing  the  latest  war  news. 

On  this  summer  morning  the  Boers  were  con- 
spicuous by  their  absence;  the  officers  and  troopers 
of  the  various  contingents  of  the  Irregular  forces 
now  filled  the  seats  of  the  enemy  and  partook  of  the 
hospitality  of  The  Outspan. 

"  Report  has  it  they  are  coming  this  way,  and  the 
Head  has  decided  we  go  forward  and  give  them  a 
welcome,"  explained  one  eager-faced  young  trooper 
to  Thane,  who  stood  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  a  burly, 
silent  figure  among  the  chattering  group. 

"  Must  be  something  in  it,  eh,  Brandon?  "  queried 
another,  appealing  directly  to  a  comrade  who  had 
shown  himself  unequalled  at  the  game  of  guerilla 
warfare. 

Thane  nodded,  but  said  nothing  though  fully 
aware  of  the  change  in  plans  since  he  had  learned 
from  Woodward,  on  the  latter's  return,  of  the  orders 
for  an  immediate  shift  to  circumvent  the  ambush 
planned  by  the  Boers. 

330 


DIVIDED  331 

"  We'll  get  them  on  the  run  again,"  said  the 
young  trooper,  eagerly.  "  Almachtig,  broersl  "  he 
went  on,  jocularly  twisting  his  tongue  to  the  taal^ 
"but  it  is  grand  when  we  get  the  chance  to  catch 
them  in  the  open." 

"  See  how  splendidly  we've  cleared  the  whole  of 
this  immense  district  since  we  were  sent  up  here  not 
much  over  six  months  since,"  bragged  a  wiry,  sun- 
browned  trooper.  "  Lord  love  you  I  where  would 
the  Reg'lars  have  been  in  this  Transvaal  back 
veldt*?  " 

"  Lost  —  every  mother's  son  of  'em !  —  lost,  long 
ere  this,"  scoffed  his  companions ;  and :  "  It  takes  a 
reg'lar  bush-hand  to  travel  over  this  'ere  ground," 
explained  an  old  Australian,  placidly. 

"  Mighty  tough  travellin'  it  is,  too.  Bill,"  added 
his  friend.  "  I  doubt  whether  we  shall  manage  in 
the  long  run  to  stand  exac'ly  face  to  face  with  'em." 

"  We'll  do  it  if  possible  .  .  .  we'll  catch  'em  in 
the  open  .  .  .  it's  beans  we're  goin'  to  give  *em  this 
trip." 

"  Well,  here's  luck  .  .  .  luck  to  the  chaps  ahead 
of  us  .  .  .  the  man  as  is  leadin'  'em  won't  stop  to 
palaver  or  do  the  perlite  when  he  comes  up  with 
'em." 

"  Not  he  .  .  .  poor  chap !  he's  dead  sick  of  their 
crooked  little  tricks !  shot  his  pal,  they  did,  in  one  of 
their  damned  ugly  ways." 

Then  they  were  out  again,  springing  to  saddle  and 
heading  north.     It  was  to  the  north  all  invariably 


332  DIVIDED 

turned,  and  Aletta,  who  from  a  point  on  the  moun- 
tain-side had  been  watching  throughout  the  morning 
the  unusual  activities  in  the  camp  of  the  Irregulars, 
began  to  be  troubled  by  a  smouldering  suspicion  of 
treachery. 

She  had  missed  her  sister  on  the  previous  evening, 
yet  Johanna,  on  her  return,  had  flatly  denied  the 
insinuations  cast  at  her,  declaring  stoutly  that  of 
Thane  she  had  seen  no  sign. 

"  And  I  believed  her,"  Aletta  now  told  herself 
reproachfully.  Thane,  she  had  understood  from 
the  native  spies  whom  she  regularly  employed,  was 
still  absent  from  the  post-house.  Under  this  belief 
she  had  failed  to  keep  a  strict  watch  over  her  sister. 
"  I  shouldn't  have  let  her  out  of  my  sight,"  she  re- 
peated uneasily,  remembering  Thane's  extraordinary 
influence  over  the  girl  and  Johanna's  knowledge  of 
Bouwer's  visits  and  news. 

She  hurried  back  to  the  house,  but  the  culprit  had 
wisely  absented  herself  for  the  day,  recognizing  the 
wisdom  of  avoiding  any  further  cross-questioning 
once  Aletta's  suspicions  should  be  aroused;  she,  too, 
had  noticed  the  riding  to  and  fro  between  The  Out- 
span  and  the  three-mile-distant  camp  where  the 
Irregulars  were  entrenched. 

Failing  to  find  her  sister,  Aletta  —  aghast  and 
horrified  by  her  now  more  thoroughly-awakened 
suspicions  of  treachery  and  by  the  ever-growing 
dread  of  the  terrible  results  consequent  upon  any 
such  treachery  to  the  men  of  the  commando  — 


DIVIDED  333 

passed  out  again,  taking  the  path  down  the  moun- 
tain-side that  led  to  the  post-house.  Before  crossing 
the  stream  she  halted,  debating  within  her  own  mind 
as  to  the  wisdom  of  bearding  the  lion  in  his  den. 
One  needed  as  much  courage  to  attack  that  duivel 
of  a  Thane  as  to  smack  the  face  of  the  king  of  beasts, 
she  thought  whimsically. 

But  the  gnawings  of  her  suspicions  drove  her  for- 
ward, heedless  of  consequences;  and  she  crossed  the 
rustic  foot-bridge,  calling  aloud  to  Babs  whom  she 
detected  crouching  among  the  reeds  and  rushes  at 
some  little  distance  down-stream. 

Rising  out  of  her  lair  and  followed  by  her  boon 
companions,  the  terriers,  Babs  showed  the  liveliest 
interest  in  the  advent  of  George's  wife. 

"  Whatever  are  you  doing  down  here*? "  she 
asked,  in  simply-direct  if  not  over-polite  fashion. 

"Is  Thane  at  home?"  Aletta  questioned  in  re- 
turn. 

Babs'  calm  eyes  surveyed  her  innocently. 

"  Oh,  you  are  going  up  to  the  house*?  Then  I'll 
go  along  and  see,  since  you've  spoiled  our  sport; 
Sampson  and  Delilah  were  flushing  partridges  so 
cleverly,  and  I  was  the  keeper.  We  were  having 
such  fun." 

She  raced  the  dogs  up  the  pathway  to  Aletta' s 
annoyance.  '' ^och!  but  it  is  an  irritating  child  I 
I  wanted  particularly  to  get  out  of  her  since  when 
Thane  has  been  back  .  .  .  but  she's  too  deep  —  or 
else  she's  been  put  up  to  it." 


334  DIVIDED 

Margery,  warned  by  Babs,  was  on  the  back  stoep 
to  greet  her  sister-in-law. 

"  Babs  has  gone  to  see  if  Thane  is  anywhere 
about,"  she  said  pleasantly;  "  but  I  expect  he's  off 
again." 

"  Again?     Since  when  has  he  been  back?  " 

Margery  lightly  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  He  was  here  this  morning "  she  began,  but 

Aletta  interrupted  stormily: 

"  You  are  all  neck-deep  in  this  business;  where  is 
one  to  learn  the  simple  truth?  "  She  pushed  past 
Margery.  "I'll  find  Thane,  if  he  is  to  be  found  at 
The  Outspan." 

He  was  not  to  be  found  in  his  bedroom,  nor  in 
the  stables  —  where  she  discovered  the  groom  busily 
applying  the  curry-comb  to  the  shining  coat  of  the 
big,  stoutly-built  Buller,  Thane's  own  riding-horse, 
and  was  thus  confirmed  in  her  idea  that  he  had  re- 
turned from  his  late  expedition  with  the  Irregulars; 
nor  was  he  to  be  seen  in  the  zit-kamer  — into  which 
she  ventured  to  intrude  her  head,  and  was  rewarded 
by  a  volley  of  stares  from  eager,  darting  eyes  set  in 
sun-reddened  faces,  owned  by  khaki-clad  troopers 
who  sat  or  stood  about  the  bar  quenching  an  insati- 
able thirst  with  dop,  laager,  lemonade,  or  tea,  accord- 
ing to  their  habits  and  requirements.  Aletta's  face 
flushed  angrily  as  she  felt  all  eyes  fasten  curiously 
upon  her  while  she  stood  irresolutely,  striving  to 
obtain  an  intelligible  reply  from  the  barman,  who, 
of  course,  "couldn't  exac'ly  say     .     ,     ,     Mister 


DIVIDED  335 

Thane  he  might  be  about  somewhere,  but  then  again 
he  mightn't  be."  In  a  quick  flare  of  anger  she 
slammed  the  door  upon  his  lame  conclusions,  and 
passing  the  out-houses  to  the  right  of  the  building 
crossed  the  short  intervening  space  of  yard  to  the 
oblong,  wooden  shed,  with  its  corrugated-iron  roof 
and  sheltering  stoep.  Standing  in  the  open  doorway 
of  the  big  store-house,  with  its  sacks  of  wool  and 
bags  of  grain  piled  high  in  the  background,  she  faced 
a  group  of  men  —  her  father-in-law,  white-haired 
and  stooping;  Woodward,  deep  in  converse  with  the 
sparely-built,  iron-nerved  leader  of  the  advancing 
forces;  a  couple  of  officers  belonging  to  the  contin- 
gent; and  beyond  these,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  sitting 
astride  a  deal  packing-case,  lounged  the  man  she 
sought. 

At  sight  of  the  woman's  figure  the  low,  serious 
tones  of  the  men  dropped  to  instant  silence.  Old 
Brandon,  who  gazed  at  his  daughter-in-law  as  though 
uncertain  of  her  identity,  was  the  first  to  break  the 
awkward  pause. 

"  That  you,  Aletta?    What's  up*?  " 

As  he  spoke  he  moved  forward,  blocking  her  fur- 
ther entrance,  and  screening  from  her  view  the  inte- 
rior of  the  big,  dimly-lighted  room. 

"  It's  Thane  I'm  wanting,"  she  responded,  curtly. 
She  raised  her  voice:  "  It's  you.  Thane,  that  I  want." 

"  The  hell  you  do!  "  grunted  Thane,  without  stir- 
ring a  muscle  of  his  mightly  limbs. 

"  Go  off,"  advised  old  Brandon,  not  unkindly  yet 


336  DIVIDED 

in  a  tone  devoid  of  sympathy.  "  Get  a  move  on, 
Aletta;  we  can't  have  women  bothering  round  here; 
you'll  find  Margery  over  at  the  house." 

Before  he  was  aware  of  her  intention  she  had  dived 
beneath  his  arm  barring  the  doorway,  and  had 
slipped  into  the  store.  When  he  turned,  he  saw  her 
standing  before  Thane,  who  remained  immovable. 
With  a  word  to  his  comrades  Woodward  swept  them 
into  the  open,  but  not  before  her  full,  heavy  voice 
had  rung  out  sharply  through  the  quiet  of  the  room. 

"  You  were  with  Jo  last  night?  "  she  rapped  out 
accusingly. 

His  quick  ears  detected  the  questioning  note  in  her 
sharp  tones     .     .     .     then  Jo  had  not  blabbed. 

"  You're  a  fool  I  .  .  .  s'pose  Jo  flew  to  the 
camp,  did  she?" 

"  You  weren't  at  the  camp,"  she  panted.  "  You 
were  back " 

He  rose  to  his  great  height,  towered  above  her, 
stretched  himself  and  suppressed  a  yawn. 

"  Since  you  say  so  .  .  .  s'pose  one  of  your 
black  spies  fooled  you  with  that  yarn,  Aletta."  His 
tones  were  sarcastic  and  maddened  her.  "  Anything 
more  I  must  hear?  " 

She  knew  not  what  to  think.  Had  there  been 
treachery?  From  this  man  she  could  learn  nothing. 
To  pour  forth  her  anger  might  possibly  arouse 
suspicions  in  his  mind  which,  in  turn,  might  involve 
unpleasant  discoveries.  Nevertheless,  to  refrain 
from  harsh  words  she  found  an  impossibility. 


DIVIDED  337 

"  More!  "  she  echoed  angrily.  "  Don't  I  know  to 
my  sorrow  the  duivel  you've  been  to  Jo,  the  traitor 
you'd  like  to  be  to  your  own  country*?  Shame  upon 
you,  Thane  Brandon,"  she  called  after  his  retreating 
form.  "  Yes,  you  go  off;  you  don't  like  my  words; 
yet  you  shall  hear  them,  and  your  friends  there  — 
the  men  who  have  driven  our  men  from  us  and  shut 
up  our  women  in  their  accursed  warrens  —  they 
shall  hear  when  I  call  you  traitor  and  betrayer  — 
traitor,  black  as  hell  I  —  betrayer,  vile  as  Iscariot  I  " 

He  swung  himself  round  in  the  doorway ;  the  flash 
from  his  fiery  eyes  unnerved  her;  she  felt  that  fierce 
glare  scorching  body  and  soul. 

"Have  you  done?"  his  deep  growl  stole  across 
the  silence  of  the  room.  She  forced  herself  to  look 
up;  old  Brandon  had  left  the  store;  she  and  Thane 
were  alone  together. 

She  crossed  the  room  to  where  he  stood. 

"  Answer  me,  as  before  our  Maker !  Answer  me, 
because  I  am  George's  wife ! "  she  implored. 
"Thane,  I  shall  go  mad  if  you  don't  answer  me! 
Where  you  with  Jo  last  evening?  " 

"  You  damned  hell-cat !  "  he  returned,  with  slow 
vehemence.  "  Talk  of  bein'  George's  wife,  do  you? 
Don't  say  nothing  of  your  damned  pal  that  you  go 
skippin'  over  the  hill-side  of  an  evening  to  meet, 
do  you?  Traitor!  Oh,  no;  what's  a  husband  to  the 
likes  of  your  precious  sort  —  'specially  when  the 
husband's  being  kept  safe  and  tight  by  Mr.  Petrus 
Bouwer  and  his  pals  at  the  Boer  camp?  'Betrayer, 


338  DIVIDED 

vile  as  'ScariotI '  do  you  say^  Well,  if  so,  you're  in 
good  company  —  in  excellent  company  I  "  His 
laugh  made  her  flesh  creep  .  .  .  her  eyes  fell  be- 
neath the  fierce  challenge  in  his  .  .  .  What  did  he 
know  ■? 

"It  isn't  true,"  she  panted;  "you're  just  guess- 
ing " 

"So  are  you,"  he  retorted,  contemptuously. 
"  Play  the  game,  woman;  you  let  Jo  alone.  Worry 
her  with  your  cross-questionings  and  pryings,"  he 
went  on,  fiercely,  "  and  I'll  know  it,  and  you'll  find 
I  can  protect  the  girl  .  .  .  can  get  you  shut  up 
as  a  spy!  There,  get  along  home,  and  keep  your 
tongue  between  your  teeth  if  you've  got  an  ounce  of 
sense  in  your  touzled  pate." 

Woman-like  she  must  needs  fling  a  reply. 

"  Protect  Jo  I  You're  a  nice  sort  of  protector !  '* 
she  grumbled,  but  in  subdued  tones,  and  thus  re- 
treated under  cover  of  the  last  word,  crossing  the 
yard  and  passing  again  through  the  house  into  the 
garden  where  she  found  Margery  and  Babs  engaged 
in  gathering  a  basket  of  the  yellowing  peaches  from 
off  the  heavily-laden  boughs. 

"  Stay  for  coffee,"  Margery  said,  hospitably. 
"  It's  just  time.  Babs,  run  and  tell  Lisbeth  to  make 
the  coffee,  and  you  set  the  cups  and  saucers,"  she 
added,  turning  to  the  child. 

"  I'll  not  take  sup  nor  bite  under  your  roof,"  Alet- 
ta  declared  coldly,  when  Babs  was  out  of  hearing. 
"  False  to  my  man,  Thane  has  called  me.     Heer! 


DIVIDED  339 

Margery,  my  fingers  were  itching  to  tear  the  eyes 
out  of  his  head,  ^ochl  l^och!  If  George  could  but 
have  heard  him !  But  the  time  will  come,"  she  added 
darkly,  "  the  time  will  come." 

"  Don't  heed  all  Thane  says,"  advised  her  sister- 
in-law.  "  You  shouldn't  have  forced  yourself  upon 
him;  he  doesn't  stand  interference  patiently  —  not 
nowadays     .     .     .     he*s  worried,  as  you  know." 

"  And  aren't  we  worried?  "  demanded  Aletta,  not 
altogether  unreasonably.  "  Can  I  sleep  in  my  bed 
of  a  night,  not  knowing  whether  Jo  will  ever  come 
back  from  her  wanderings  in  the  dark"?  And  you  are 
as  bad  as  Thane,"  she  added,  turning  upon  Margery. 
"  I  asked  you  a  simple  question:  Was  he  here  last 
evening*?  and  you  put  me  off  .  .  .  you  put  me 
off  .  .  .  but  take  care,  schoen-sister,  take  care; 
you  think  yourself  secure  —  you  think  Aletta  a  poor 
harmless  creature  —  quite  helpless.  What  can  she 
do  to  upset  your  little  plan  of  marrying  the  man 
you  have  at  your  feet?  Yet  a  mere  atom  of  a  mouse 
freed  a  lion ;  and  hold  your  tongue,  when  by  speak- 
ing you  could  relieve  my  mind,  and  we  shall  see 
what  we  shall  see." 

Her  tone  was  so  significant  that  Margery  was 
struck  by  the  latent  meaning  underlying  the  threat. 
She  forced  herself  to  speak  lightly : 

"  No  doubt  we  shall  see  a  lot,  Aletta,  if  we  live 
long  enough." 

"  Then  you  won't  answer?  .  .  .  it's  war  be- 
tween us?  " 


340  DIVIDED 

"  What  Thane  doesn't  tell  you,  I  can't." 
"  And  what  you  don't  tell  your  lover,  I  can,"  her 
sister-in-law  returned,  warningly.  "  If  there  is  too 
much  water  in  the  mealie-pot  it  may  boil  safely  for 
long  but  in  the  end  it  boils  over  —  believe  me,  Mar- 
gery, in  the  end  it  boils  over;  and  your  mealie-pot's 
none  to  secure  .  .  .  between  a  woman's  tongue 
and  a  man's  faith  your  secret's  none  too  safe  .  .  . 
I  shouldn't  in  your  place,  feel  too  certain  of  Wood- 
ward's putting  the  ring  on  my  finger." 

She  turned  and  passed  down  the  garden,  leaving 
her  sister-in-law  coolly  and  steadily  continuing  her 
task  of  peach-gathering,  outwardly  unmoved,  yet 
inwardly  staggered  by  a  sense  as  of  storm-clouds 
gathering  overhead. 


XI 


In  one  of  her  dark,  dreamy  moods  Margery  gazed 
down  upon  the  veldt-world  stretching  before  her  to 
the  furthest  limit  of  the  horizon  as  she  sat  overlook- 
ing it  from  the  boulder-strewn  height  of  World's 
View. 

Across  the  broad,  majestic  face  of  the  illimitable 
plain,  as  far  as  human  vision  could  carry,  patches  of 
grey-blue,  stunted  bush  stood  out  like  islands  amid 
the  vast,  billowy  ocean  of  the  yellows  and  red- 
browns  and  greens  of  the  long,  rank  grasses  bending 
and  swaying  with  the  rhythm  and  ripple  of  the 
waves  of  the  sea;  casting  broken,  shadowy,  fleeting 
lights  upon  the  immutable  yet  everchanging  surface 
of  the  boundless  veldt-world. 

A  few  paces  from  where  she  sat,  shading  with  up- 
lifted hands  her  eyes  from  the  direct  rays  of  the  de- 
clining sun.  Woodward  stood,  looking  through  his 
field-glasses  in  a  northerly  direction. 

"  I  can  just  distinguish  the  farm-house,"  he  said 
presently,  coming  to  her  and  placing  the  glasses  in 
her  hands.  Rising,  she  stood  gazing  through  them 
across  the  distance  which  separated  her  from  the 
point  at  which  the  Irregulars  might  possibly  come  up 
with  the  commando. 

341 


342  DIVIDED 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "  that  is  the  place; 
quite  thirty  miles  from  here,  I  should  say.  I  have 
often  ridden  over  there  with  George."     ' 

She  handed  him  back  the  glasses.  He  slipped  the 
strap  over  his  shoulders.  "  We  can  see  nothing  of 
the  farm-house  except  just  the  glimpse  of  light  play- 
ing on  the  walls  and  roof." 

She  resumed  her  seat  on  the  boulder,  drawing  her 
hat  over  her.eyes.  Woodward  looked  down  on  her, 
intense  compassion  for  the  cruel  suspense  weighing 
upon  her  mind  mingling  with  a  sense  of  conscious 
helplessness  at  the  task  of  lightening  her  dark  mood, 
stamped  on  his  eager,  resolute  face. 

"  Margery,"  his  voice  broke  passionately  upon  the 
stillness  of  the  wide  world  in  which  they  found  them- 
selves alone  together,  "  it  is  cruel  both  to  yourself 
and  to  me  to  eat  your  heart  out,  suffering  in  silence ! 
I  am  yours,  dearest  —  then  let  me  share  your  suf- 
fering." 

"  Suffering  is  the  bread  life  offers  to  humanity," 
she  answered,  speaking  in  an  unemotional  tone.     . 

There  fell  upon  the  man  a  more  insistent  sense 
of  his  utter  helplessness  to  help  this  woman  to  whom 
his  soul  was  knit  with  a  great  longing  of  desire  for 
closest  union  and  heart-to-heart  fellowship,  mingled 
with  a  sense  of  perplexity  as  to  his  real  ability  to  un- 
derstand her.  Every  fibre  of  his  being  was  set  throb- 
bing to  the  tune  of  his  overmastering  love  for  her; 
his  heaven  lay  in  the  tender  depths  of  those  deep- 
set  eyes;    he  felt  that  she  loved  him  with  all  the 


DIVIDED  343 

strength  of  her  passionate  heart  and  soul;  that  her 
affection  for  him  was  a  vital  and  recognized  part  of 
her  strongly-moulded  self,  of  her  deep,  intense  in- 
dividuality; that  they  were  pledged  to  one  another 
—  co-mates  for  all  future  time.  Yet  still  he  stood 
there  before  her,  helpless  and  puzzled;  troubled  by 
the  old  sense  of  mystery  that  clung  to  her,  by  the  old 
intuition  of  that  dark  mask  which  draped  her  fea- 
tures, and  cloaked  her  soul  and  shrouded  her  real 
self.  Into  the  heart  of  the  real  woman  he  strove  to 
penetrate,  but  again  the  old  formidable  barrier 
erected  itself  —  tangible,  yet  invisible  —  separating 
and  hiding  the  heart  and  mind  of  the  woman  from 
the  intrusions  of  the  man. 

That  she  suffered  was  but  inevitable  and  natural, 
since  she  stood  in  the  terrible  position  of  only  sister 
to  two  brothers  ranged  on  different  sides  of  the 
forces  about  to  meet  in  a  sharp  and  deadly  con- 
flict. Strange,  it  would  have  been,  had  she  not 
under  these  circumstances  suffered  intensely 
from  the  cruel  agony  of  suspense  she  was  called 
upon  to  endure.  But  while  making  all  allowance 
for  this  natural  condition  of  body  and  mind. 
Woodward  intuitively  realized  that  there  was 
some  other  cause  —  some  more  intimate  personal 
reason  —  for  her  present  suffering;  for  the  rest- 
less, despondent  mood  which  had  pressed  upon 
her  throughout  the  day. 

The  mood,  indeed,  was  nothing  new  to  her,  nor 
was  the  sense  of  perplexity  foreign  to  his  reflections 


344  DIVIDED 

in  regard  to  her.  He  was  never  with  her  but  he  was 
haunted  by  that  earliest  sense  of  something  that  fas- 
cinated, yet  eluded;  that  baulked,  yet  drew  him. 
He  would  get  just  so  far,  and  then  remain  unsatis- 
fied. Often,  too,  as  he  had  watched  her  coming  and 
going  on  her  daily  round  of  housekeeping  duties  — 
or  plying  needle  and  thread  in  the  quiet  of  the  even- 
ing —  he  had  found  her  restless  and  uneasy ;  often, 
for  no  reason  as  it  seemed  to  him,  swayed  unnatur- 
ally by  a  mood  he  could  neither  enter  into  nor  fath- 
om. With  a  passionate  joy,  as  it  had  seemed  to 
Woodward,  she  had  at  last  surrendered  herself  to 
him  and  to  his  love  for  her,  clutching,  as  at  some 
unutterable  bliss,  at  this  gift  life  held  out  to  her  — 
the  gift  of  the  love  and  devotion  of  his  sober,  quiet, 
somewhat  reserved  manhood;  welcoming  it  with  a 
force  and  intensity  that  shook  her  proud,  self-con- 
tained nature  to  its  inmost  depths. 

In  those  days  of  her  earliest  confession  of  their 
mutual  love  and  of  her  passionate  acceptance  of  that 
love,  she  had  appeared  to  him  as  one  who,  in  the 
past,  had  been  crushed  by  a  vital  blow  under  which 
she  had  sunk  into  apathy,  and  now,  in  the  oncoming 
of  mental  convalescence,  was  timidly  lifting  up  eyes 
responsive  to  the  beckonings  of  hope  toward  a  bright- 
ening future.  So  he,  too,  had  been  led  to  hope  and 
believe  that  her  cure  of  that  fell  life-sickness  which 
had  overtaken  her  on  the  threshold  of  her  dawning 
womanhood  had  been  radical  and  complete.  Yet 
now  again  he  looked  down  upon  her  darkening  brow, 


DIVIDED  345 

touched  by  despair  —  enigmatic  and  brooding  — 
and  as  he  saw  her  thus,  his  doubt  as  to  her  perfect 
healing,  his  perplexity  as  to  his  divining  of  the  real 
woman  within  her  returned  in  full  force. 

His  silence  arrested  the  flow  of  her  gloomy 
thoughts,  drew  her  to  his  grave  absorption,  and  with 
a  sudden  heartbeat  she  shook  from  her  mind  the 
black  misgivings  which  had  troubled  her  since  Alet- 
ta's  dark  threat  of  the  previous  afternoon.  For  the 
last  time  she  told  herself  vehemently  she  never 
would  speak  —  would  never  let  go  her  secret ;  let 
come  what  may,  her  lips  should  remain  sealed.  It 
was  her  fiery  retort  to  the  faint  whisperings  of  a  con- 
science that  was  beginning  to  make  itself  heard. 

She  would  not  speak;  yet  neither  would  she  relin- 
quish Woodward.  He  had  grown  too  dear  to  her  to 
risk  the  chance  of  losing  him  through  a  confession 
as  to  her  real  position  —  her  past  history.  She 
would  hold  him  to  her;  yet  she  would  hold  her 
secret,  guarding  Babs'  interests. 

Into  her  brooding  eyes  sprang  a  fierceness  of  re- 
solve that  instantly  changed  them  to  a  jewel-like 
brightness;  her  dark,  formidable  brows  unbent;  her 
face  grew  alive,  eager,  passionate,  as  she  leaned  side- 
ways, stretching  out  a  hand  and  looking  up  at  Wood- 
ward with  conscious  tenderness.  At  the  action,  the 
glance,  his  doubts  dispersed,  his  perplexity  vanished; 
he  was  at  her  side,  kneeling  before  her;  his  arm 
around  her  bent  shoulders,  the  fragrance  of  her  soft, 
dark  hair  stealing  over  his  senses,  intoxicating  him. 


346  DIVIDED 

"  Hold  me  from  myself"  she  breathed,  in  a  low 
intensity  that  he  felt  to  be  real.  "  Phil,  there  often 
will  be  times  when  I'll  behave  to  you  like  the  veriest 
wretch  —  when  you'll  wish  that  you'd  never  had 
anything  to  do  with  me.     .     .     ." 

"  I'll  never  wish  that,  dearest,"  he  returned,  in 
the  strong,  comforting  tones  that  brought  to  her 
aching,  tempest-tossed  heart  such  a  sense  of  rest  and 
safety.  "  I  ask  nothing  more  of  life  so  that  you  and 
I  spend  the  years  together.  Ours  is  a  great  love,  isn't 
it,  Margery"?  Do  you  feel  yours  for  me  great  enough 
to  forgive  my  blundering  attempts  to  understand 
you  —  my  clumsy  efforts  to  help  you"?  " 

The  flame  in  her  eyes  startled  him ;  her  arms  were 
around  him,  her  face  upturned  to  his. 

"  Forgive  me,  Phil  .  .  .  Fve  been  a  perfect 
brute  to  you  all  day!  .  .  .  forgive  me  .  .  . 
I'm  worried  —  awfully  worried  —  I've  been  mad, 
hardly  knowing  what  I  said  or  did  .  .  . 
George!  .  .  .  '^hane!  .  .  .  My  God!  I 
feel  I  shall  go  off  my  head  if  they're  not  soon  back. 
But,  oh,  Phil !  "  —  she  turned  her  burning  eyes  on 
him  —  "I  need  not  have  been  such  a  beast  to  you, 
dearest.  You  have  been  so  patient  with  me  —  so 
good,  and  tender,  and  dear!  .  .  .  Oh  Phil,  I 
couldn't  lose  your  love  now  —  I  couldn't  lose  it  and 
bear  my  miserable  life  —  the  old,  miserable,  monot- 
onous life  I  used  to  live  before  you  came  into  it !  " 

She  had  drawn  him  down  to  her  seat  upon  the  low, 
flat  boulder  and  crept  close  within  his  arms.    The 


DIVIDED 


347 


feel  of  his  near  presence  heartened  and  comforted 
her,  and  she  tried  to  believe  that  all  would  yet  be 
well  as  his  lips  gently  touched  her  hair. 

"  Phil,  it's  absurd  of  you  to  suggest  that  I  have 
anything  to  forgive,"  she  said,  more  brightly;  "I 
could  almost  wish  it  were  so  —  that  you  had  done 
me  some  cruel  wrong  that  I  might  show  you  mine 
isn't  a  poor,  feeble,  little  love  frightened  by  shadows 

—  or  even  by  sins.  Dearest,  don't  you  know  — 
don't  you  feel  in  your  heart  and  soul  —  that  all  my 
hope  of  happiness  in  life  is  bound  up  in  your  love 
for  me?  And  I  have  been  so  \mkind,  so  ungracious, 
so  heartless!  Can  you  forgive  me,  Phil'?  Can  you 
love  me  just  as  well  as  you  did  yesterday*?  "  she 
asked  humbly,  putting  her  hand  to  his  face. 

"  Better,"  he  returned,  emphatically.  "  Better,  I 
think,  Margery,  because  of  the  suffering  you've  had 
to  bear.  My  love  will  forgive  everything  you  may 
choose  to  be  or  do;  you  are  part  of  myself,  and  from 
henceforth  what  gladdens  you,  gladdens  me;  what 
hurts  you,  hurts,  me.     Don't  be  afraid,  sweetheart  " 

—  his  voice  grew  serious  and  significant;  "  don't  be 
afraid  that  I  shall  ever  be  anything  but  sorry  for 
your  dark  moods;  they  grieve  me  because  I  see  you 
suffering,  but  they  make  no  difference  to  my  love 
for  you;  that  is  a  part  of  myself;  that  never  can 
change  or  die." 

"  Would  nothing  make  it  change?  "  she  asked, 
slowly. 

"  Nothing  —  except  the  knowledge  that  you  had 


348  DIVIDED 

been  deceiving  me  —  playing  with  me  .  .  . 
for  that  would  mean  you  had  no  love  for  me." 

"Then  you  would  cease  to  love  me?  " 

"  Then  I  should  try  to  forget  you.  I  don't  say  I 
should  be  successful "  —  his  arm  tightened  round 
her,  and  his  eyes  drew  hers  with  the  force  of  their 
strong  magnetism. 

Again  there  rushed  over  her  the  desire  to  tell  him 
all,  to  confess  the  past;  but  the  image  of  the  red- 
lipped  child,  so  dear  to  her,  rose  before  her,  sealing 
her  lips. 

Then  Woodward  was  speaking: 

"  I  have  felt,  Margery  —  wrongly  it  may  be  — 
that  there  is  a  barrier  between  us  —  dividing  us ; 
that  it  is  this  barrier  which  is  keeping  me  from  en- 
tering into  your  moods  in  the  only  way  that  would 
be  of  real  help  to  you  in  bearing  them  .  .  . 
Don't  think  I  want  to  pry  into  old  sores,"  he  added 
hastily,  as  beneath  the  drawn  brows  he  noted  her 
paling  face;  "I  want  only  to  help  you,  darling; 
if  you  are  in  trouble  —  some  trouble  very  real  and 
heavy  to  you,  and  of  which  I  know  nothing  —  speak 
and  let  me  share  it;  Margery,  don't  shut  me  out  of 
your  heart,  out  of  your  cares;  if  you  love  me  you 
won't  do  that;  if  you  love  me  you'll  let  me  share 
this  secret  trouble,  or  sorrow,  or  worry,  whatever  it 
may  be;  if  you  love  me,  Margery." 

His  quiet,  deep  voice  sounded  forcefully  on  the 
calm  "stillness  around,  imploring  her  to  confession, 
entreating  of  her  a  confidence  by  his  right  —  a  con- 


DIVIDED  349 

iidence,  she  felt,  which  if  after  these  words  she  still 
withheld,  in  the  day  when  he  learned  her  secret  he 
must  of  necessity  question  the  sincerity  of  her  love. 

But  that  day  might  never  dawn;  Aletta's  threat 
notwithstanding,  she  declined  to  entertain  the  pos- 
sibility of  Woodward  ever  learning  her  dark  secret. 
After  all,  Aletta's  words  were  haphazard,  the  result 
of  years  of  deeply-ingrained  suspicion.  That  suspi- 
cion had  fastened  upon  Babs'  birth  was  but  natural; 
that  their  neighbors  held  views  upon  the  question 
as  to  the  child's  parentage  Margery  was  well  aware. 
But  to  put  such  suspicions  openly  into  words,  and  to 
address  those  words  to  a  friend  of  the  Brandon  fam- 
ily, was  quite  another  matter;  and  that  her  sister-in- 
law  would  actually  do  so  she  felt  to  be  a  very  remote 
contingency,  a  quite  impossible  eventuality.  In  any 
case  she  would  see  to  it  that  Aletta  got  no  opportu- 
nity for  conversation  with  Woodward. 

She  must  brave  the  matter  out ;  her  eyes  searching 
his  down-bent  face,  she  answered : 

"  Dearest,  all  life  has  held  sorrow  for  me  since  I 
grew  up  and  lost  my  mother;  and  it  has  been  hidden 
oh,  yes;  women  bear  their  troubles  in  that 
quiet,  dull,  resigned  sort  of  fashion,  you  know,  Phil ; 
even  the  dearest  of  brothers  can't  always  understand. 
I've  my  dark  moods  —  black  enough  life  looks  to 
me  then,  too  —  but  it's  not  one  sorrow  that  causes 
them;  it's  sorrow,  worry,  trouble,  piled  on  sorrow, 
worry,  trouble  —  you  understand?" 

She  raised  herself,  bringing  her  face  on  a  level 
with  his. 


350  DIVIDED 

The  serious,  iron-grey  eyes  of  the  man  looked 
steadfastly,  straightly,  inquiringly  into  the  jewel- 
bright,  greenish-grey  eyes  of  the  woman,  now  wide 
and  intent  as  she  returned  the  scrutiny.  Only  she 
feared  lest  the  loud  throbbing  of  her  pulses  should 
betray  her.  She  was  inwardly  beaten  down  by  the 
despair  of  the  thought  that  she  who  loved  this  man 
—  who  desired  him,  worshipped  him,  lived  but  for 
him  —  was,  nevertheless,  lying  to  him;  deceiving 
him. 

"Then  I  was  mistaken*?"  he  said,  in  a  puzzled 
way.  "  I  have  been  on  a  wrong  track  all  the  while? 
There  is  nothing  worrying  you  —  not  one  particular 
worry,  I  mean,  apart,  of  course,  from  your  anxiety 
about  your  brothers?  " 

"  There  is  nothing,  dear  Phil ; "  she  forced  her 
tones  to  the  old,  tender  sincerity,  "  nothing  but  all 
the  old  sores  aching  together  because  my  mind  is 
so  racked  with  anxiety  over  our  boys." 

The  love  which  had  come  to  him  somewhat  late 
in  life  had  awakened  in  Woodward's  slow-moving 
and  reserved  yet  deeply-sensitive  nature  a  forceful 
capacity,  an  insistent  demand  for  its  fulfilment  in  his 
union  with  the  woman  now  grown  so  dear  to  him, 
so  necessary  to  his  future  happiness  or  content.  And 
now,  as  she  spoke,  sweeping  away  the  last  barrier 
that  had  seemed  to  stand  between  the  perfect  union 
of  their  souls,  the  perfect  marriage  of  their  minds 
and  persons,  his  love  for  Margery  Brandon  assumed 
its  highest  proportions,  awoke  tenfold  in  power  and 


DIVIDED  351 

intensity,  turning  to  fire  in  his  veins.    As  his  burning 

kisses  were  pressed  upon  her  lips  and  eyes  and  hair, 

as  she  felt  herself  held  closely  within  his  embrace, 

Margery,  a  smile  in  her  eyes,  despair  in  her  heart, 

yet  thanked  herself  for  the  courage  with  which  she 

had  lied  to  him. 

"  Nothing  can  take  away  these  moments     .     .     . 

nothing  can  make  them  as  though  they  never  had 

been     ...     as  though  I  never  had  lived  and  felt 

—  down  to  the  very  heart  of  life  itself  —  while  his 

arms  were  around  me,"  she  told  herself  in  a  burst  of 

fierce  triumph. 

♦  *  * 

But  that  was  while  they  lingered  on  the  mountain- 
top  —  the  glory  of  the  evening  shadows  around 
them,  the  last  painted  streak  from  the  lingering  radi- 
ance of  the  setting  sun  falling  upon  the  coppery 
threads  in  Margery's  dark  hair,  lighting  the  jewel- 
gleam  of  her  wild,  alluring  eyes. 

Now  they  were  threading  the  shadowy  mazes  of 
the  bush-path  —  where  the  trees  grow  close  overhead 
and  where  the  surrounding  thicket  hid  the  lair  of 
wild  life;  they  were  treading  the  path  Thane  had 
named  her  Calvary;  she  thought  of  it  now  as  she 
moved  down  the  rugged,  narrow  track  —  over  the 
charred  stumps,  and  moss-grown  stones,  and  tangle 
of  twisted  roots  —  pressing  to  Woodward's  side. 

His  arm  around  her,  she  talked  in  her  low, 
musical,  persuasive  tones,  or  listened  with  joy  fiercely 
beating  at  the  door  of  her  heart  as  he  discussed  plans 


352  DIVIDED 

for  their  early  marriage.  He  must  go  back  to  Aus- 
tralia, just  for  a  time  —  to  sell  off  his  stock  and 
farms  .  .  .  but,  of  course,  she  must  go  with 
him  ...  as  soon  as  ever  Peace  came.  .  .  . 
Then  they  would  return  ...  his  love  for  her 
was  binding  him  for  life  to  this  strange,  unfamiliar 
land.  Henceforth  the  Transvaal  would  be  his 
home  .  .  .  they  would  make  a  nest  for  them- 
selves close  to  the  dear  old  home. 

And  Babs?  —  oh,  yes,  Babs  was  to  be  their  chick 
—  they  would  start  with  a  chick  to  hand  ...  a 
promise  of  their  own  little  ones  to  come  .  .  . 
And  at  this  they  must  needs  stop  and  lose  themselves 
in  one  another's  arms     .     .     . 

"  Phil,  whatever  sorrows  life  has  brought  me  — 
this  atones,"  Margery  said  with  intensity  when  again 
they  had  started  on  their  homeward  way. 

"  You  have  never  before  been  in  love"?  "  he  asked 
suddenly;   and  she  had  her  reply  ready: 

"Not  like  this  —  the  highest " 

"  And  are  you  happy,  Margery*?  Tell  me,  dear- 
est; does  my  love  make  you  quite  happy*?  .  .  . 
You  seemed  to  have  suffered  so  much  that  I  want 
you  to  be  happy,  darling." 

"So  I  am,  dear;   madly  happy  —  when  I  don't 

stop  to  think "  her  voice  dropped  and  slid  into 

silence. 

"  —  Of  the  past,  do  you  mean?  "  he  asked,  ten- 
derly. 

"  Of  life"  she  said,  soberly.    " Nobody  who  feels 


DIVIDED  353 

can  be  happy  if  they  think  of  life.  How  is  it  pos- 
sible*? When  one  stops  to  think  one  cannot  but  re- 
member, not  only  one's  individual  suffering,  but  that 
awful  breath  of  human  misery  always  beating 
around  us  —  beating  steadily  all  the  world  over  to 
the  tune  of  life.  It's  such  a  horrible,  outstanding 
fact  that  unless  one  makes  up  one's  mind  to  ignore  it 
and  push  it  aside  altogether  one  finds  happiness  im- 
possible." 

"  Love  makes  happiness  possible,"  he  insisted, 
masterfully. 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  said  aloud;  and  then  again: 
"Yes,  Phil;  and  I  am  happy;  I  don't  mean  to 
think  all  my  past  unhappy  thoughts  about  life,  and 
trouble,  and  the  miseries  of  humanity;  I  mean  to 
think  only  of  you,  dearest  .  .  .  and  to  be 
happy." 

Again  Woodward  felt  something  of  the  strange 
temperament  of  the  woman  by  his  side;  again  he 
penetrated  her  reserve,  glanced  for  a  moment  below 
the  surface  of  her  habitual  coldness,  and  indifference 
and  reserve,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  warmth 
and  fullness  of  her  silently-brooding  heart  —  of  the 
depth  and  intensity  of  that  rarely-sympathetic  na- 
ture. Her  eyes  upraised  to  his  moved  him  strangely 
with  their  pleading,  passionate  gaze;  his  arm  drew 
her  nearer  as  he  looked  down  upon  her  —  half  per- 
plexed, half  curious,  wholly  loving. 


XII 


The  writer  of  the  Book  of  Ecclesiastes,  whether 
the  intensely-bored,  intensely-human  monarch  of  an 
intensely-materialistic  people,  or  —  as  modern  crit- 
ics now  contend  —  quite  another  person,  has  left  to 
the  world  many  sentiments,  admirable  or  other- 
wise, which  the  social  conditions  of  our  modern  life 
appear  still  to  accept  and  embrace  as  truths  peculiar- 
ly fitted  to  the  requirements  of  the  bulk  of  human- 
ity all  the  world  over.  After  having  tried  unsuc- 
cessfully every  recipe  for  happiness,  the  writer  gives 
up  life  as  hopeless  and  unsatisfactory.  He  says, 
therefore,  in  effect:  Have  a  good  time,  enjoy  your 
youth,  drink  the  cup  of  pleasure  to  the  brim ;  never- 
theless, all  ends  in  vanity,  nothingness;  all  leads  to 
disillusion,  weariness,  discontent.  Then  he  sums 
up  with  the  conviction  that,  taking  life  all  around, 
the  best  that  may  be  made  of  it  is  obtained  by  shun- 
ning the  material  pleasures  it  offers  us  and,  instead 
of  relying  upon  these  for  happiness,  by  seeking  it  in 
another  fashion:  namely,  by  fearing  the  Creator 
and  keeping  His  commandments. 

Nowadays  we  still  demand  that  priceless  boon  of 
a  recipe  for  happiness.  In  this  essentially  material- 
istic age  wealth  to  the  majority  spells  happiness. 

354 


DIVIDED  355 

This  seems  to  be  the  keynote  of  most  people's  anx- 
iety to  make  money.  We  labor  and  strive  to  grow 
rich  quickly  in  order  that  we  may  have  a  good  time. 
"Let  us  make  haste  to  be  rich;  life  is  short;  the 
period  for  enjoying  its  pleasures  extremely  limited; 
decrepitude  is  ahead  when  desire  will  fail;  let  us 
enjoy  our  lives  and  the  pleasures  of  life  before  old 
age  comes  on  and  robs  us  of  desire  "  —  in  such  sen- 
timents appears  summed  up  our  present-day  creed.     ^ 

We  lie  and  scheme,  and  cheat  and  rob,  in  our 
frantic  desire  for  the  gold  that  is  to  bring  happiness 
into  our  lives.  We  harden  our  hearts  and  blind  our 
eyes  and  cramp  our  souls  and  crush  the  noblest  in- 
stincts of  our  natures  groping  with  down-bent  bodies 
and  not  over-clean  hands  at  the  hard  task  of  money- 
grubbing.  The  evils  resultant  upon  this  world-wide 
perversion  of  to-day  cry  aloud  from  the  dens  of  the 
sweated  worker,  from  the  reeking  slums  of  our  great 
cities,  from  the  hovels  of  the  underworld  of  beast- 
men,  from  the  painted  cheek  of  the  prostituted 
womanhood  and  girlhood  walking  our  streets.  Yet 
still  the  grim  struggle  goes  on,  the  incessant  battle 
continues  to  be  waged;  for  ever  before  the  eyes  of 
the  money-grubber  lurks  that  will-o'-the-wisp  of 
happiness. 

To  Margery  Brandon,  as  she  felt  the  irresistible 
call  of  a  powerful  human  attraction,  and  realized 
clearly  that  for  herself  happiness  and  content  lay 
alone  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  material  and  human 
bond  of  mate-ship  with  Woodward,  certain  of  the 


356  DIVIDED 

above  sentiments  propounded  by  the  writer  of  the 
Book  of  Ecclesiastes  appeared  as  profound  truths. 
She  grasped  to  secure  happiness  while  yet  the  power 
to  enjoy  it  remained  to  her;  she  deceived  the  man 
she  loved  in  order  to  secure  it  while  yet  the  desire 
for  it  was  upon  her ;  trouble  might  possibly  come  of 
it;  vanity,  disillusionment,  loss,  might  be  the  end  of 
the  matter;  nevertheless,  she  stood  hardened  in  her 
intention  to  grasp  at  this  chance  of  happiness  life 
had  opened  out  to  her.  She  had  not  sought  after  it ; 
for  long  she  had  stoutly  rejected  it;  it  had  come  to 
her  unsought,  amid  the  appointed  duties  and  ordi- 
nary pursuits  of  the  monotonous  quiet  of  her  home- 
life.  It  had  stood  before  her  for  many  months  past 
—  tempting,  inciting,  beckoning  —  and  she  had 
finally  reached  out  her  hands  to  grasp  the  coveted 
treasure.  For  Nature  had  spoken  in  her  plain,  un- 
mistakable language;  Nature  had  decreed  that  this 
man  was  her  mate;  that  she  and  Philip  Woodward 
were  each  the  other's  complement,  and  that  alone 
each  was  incomplete.  They  both  had  felt  this 
strong,  irresistible  call  of  Nature,  and  their  every 
sense  had  responded  to  the  call.  She  loved  this 
strong,  true  mate  whose  love  for  her  had  broken  the 
power  of  her  indomitable  will  and  had  captured  the 
stronghold  of  the  depths  of  her  slumbering  emotions ; 
loved  him  with  Nature's  own  peculiar  gift  to  the 
sons  and  daughters  nearest  to  her  mighty  heart  — 
with  passion  that  stirred  within  her  in  all  its  big- 
ness and  lure  of  strength,  with  its  hot  breath  and 


DIVIDED  357 

primitive,  brute  force.  Not  to  have  lied  to  Wood- 
ward in  order  to  have  kept  the  bond  between  them 
unbroken  would  have  been  a  crime,  Margery  told 
herself.  To  have  revealed  her  secret  would  equally 
have  been  criminal.  To  live  up  to  the  high  standard 
of  life  at  which  one  aims  is  not  always  possible,  she 
reflected,  and  failure  in  such  a  case  must  be  set  down 
to  the  account  of  some  unavoidable  tangle  in  the 
scheme  of  our  lives. 

As  one  by  one  the  stars  slipped  into  the  sky  over- 
head, and  the  silence  of  the  night  fell  around  them, 
they  emerged  from  the  bush-path,  turned  the  bend, 
and  came  into  line  with  the  twinkling  lights  of  the 
Top  Farm  homestead. 

A  voice,  full  and  heavy,  from  over  the  low,  green 
thickness  of  the  sprouting  kaffir-boem  hedge  sent 
Margery  suddenly,  with  a  quick  start,  further  from 
Woodward's  side. 

"  So  you  two  have  been  up  the  hill  to  look  on  at 
your  devil's  work*?  "  Aletta  asked  hoarsely. 

"  Come  on,"  commanded  Margery  in  a  low,,  short 
underbreath,  "  don't  let  us  stop  to  reason  with  her; 
she'll  only  insult  us !  " 

"You're  afraid  I  "  Aletta  called  aloud,  taunting- 
ly ;  mad  with  fury  —  since  the  events  of  the  evening 
had  confirmed  her  in  her  suspicions  of  Johanna's 
treachery  to  her  people  —  she  had  lost  all  control 
of  herself,  and  now  saw  only  in  this  opportunity  pre- 
senting itself  before  her  a  fitting  chance  to  avenge 
the  black  treachery  of  which  they  had  been  the  ac- 


358  DIVIDED 

complices  upon  some  member  of  the  Brandon  family. 
"  You're  running  away,"  she  cried  in  her  rage  and 
fury,  "  because  you  dare  not  let  your  lover  hear  my 
words." 

Woodward  fell  back,  his  form  stiffening;  Margery 
moved  slowly  onward,  too  proud  to  repeat  her  re- 
quest. 

"  —  You  dare  not  tell  him  the  truth  about  the 
child  ...  I  defy  you  to  tell  him  .  .  . 
shame,  then,  Margery " 

She  started  perceptibly  as  Woodward's  tall  figure, 
stumbling  over  the  loose  stones,  was  visible  return- 
ing through  the  dim  light. 

"  You're  a  woman !  "  he  said  in  a  low,  savage 
voice  that  Aletta  found  far  from  reassuring;  she 
looked  round,  but  no  one  was  in  sight;  then  she 
heard  his  voice  sounding  again,  low  and  furious: 
"  If  you  were  not,  I  should  know  how  to  punish  your 
vile  words!  As  it  is,  your  husband  shall  know  to 
what  depths  your  malice  has  dragged  you  down. 
What  has  his  sister  ever  done  to  you  —  but  tried  to 
help  you  along  ^  Why  should  you  utter  such  vile 
insinuations  against  her"?  " 

He  waited ;  but  Aletta,  afraid  already  of  the  con- 
sequences of  her  hastily-spoken  and  malicious  accu- 
sation, remained  silent;  and  Woodward  turned  and 
passed  down  the  hill. 


XIII 

It  was  on  the  rustic  foot-bridge  that  he  found  Mar- 
gery awaiting  his  coming. 

"  Forgive  me;  I  had  to  give  her  a  bit  of  my  mind ; 
I  owed  it  to  you,  dearest,  to  do  that  much,"  he  said 
cheerfully. 

Aletta's  base  insinuations  had  stirred  him  to  a 
fury  of  white  heat,  but  they  had  raised  no  shadow  of 
doubt  or  of  ugly  suspicion  in  his  mind. 

It  was  not  until  he  had  taken  Margery  in  his 
arms  and  drawn  her  to  his  breast  —  so  that  despite 
the  dim  light  of  the  evening  he  saw  clearly  the  look 
on  her  face,  the  expression  in  her  eyes  —  that  doubt 
first  crept  into  Philip  Woodward's  heart  and  soul  — 
perplexing,  terrifying,  maddening  him. 

The  kiss  he  had  stooped  to  press  upon  her  lips  re- 
mained arrested  as  that  look  of  doubt  and  dread 
sprang  to  birth  in  his  keen,  dark  eyes  and  stole  slowly 
over  his  bewildered  face. 

She  struggled  to  her  feet. 

"  Let  us  go  home,"  she  said,  huskily. 

Half-way  up  the  orchard-path,  under  the  heavily- 
laden  fruit-trees  upon  which  the  golden  and  crim- 
son balls  swung  pendulous  and  fragrant,  he  laid  a 
light  touch  on  her  arm. 

359 


36o  DIVIDED 

His  insupportable  burden  of  doubt  voiced  itself 
heavily. 

"  What  does  it  mean,  Margery?  ...  Is 
there  anything  in  what  she  said?  " 

She  stood  before  him  —  silent,  inexplicable  — 
with  darkened  brows  and  veiled  eyes. 

"  You  ask  me  that? "  she  demanded,  after  a 
pause,  a  note  of  sarcasm  pervading  the  low  tones. 

Her  question,  her  attitude,  maddened  him.  He 
was  like  a  man  blindfolded,  in  some  pestilential 
dungeon,  fighting  his  way  against  the  vague,  intan- 
gible blackness  that  swarmed  about  him  on  all  sides ; 
seeking  the  opening,  the  light  that  would  bring  lib- 
erty and  salvation. 

"  You  must  answer  me,"  he  said,  with  a  quick 
incisiveness  in  his  tone  new  to  her  experience. 
"  Margery,  I  ask  you  to  answer  my  question." 

Now  she  knew  her  fate  ...  it  had  stolen 
upon  her  even  as  the  sound  of  her  sister-in-law's  full, 
heavy  voice  had  stolen  upon  her  from  over  George's 
prized  kaffir-boem  hedge  in  the  silence  of  the  star- 
lit evening.  .  .  .  Her  face  changed  with  the 
repetition  of  Woodward's  question  and  he  saw  it 
draped  in  its  old  mask  —  expressionless,  enigmatic 
—  with  the  dull,  partly-veiled  eyes  looking  out  of 
its  white  weariness. 

"You  will  answer  me,  dearest?"  he  pleaded. 

But,  with  a  not  ungentle  movement,  she  put  him 
from  her. 

"  I  shall  not  answer  you     .     ,     .     you  had  no 


DIVIDED  361 

right  to  ask  the  question  .  .  .  since  you  have 
done  so  —  since,  so  it  seems,  you  doubt  —  you  have 
allowed  yourself  to  doubt  —  that  takes  away  your 
right  to  question  me,"  she  said,  firmly. 

"  You  mean  —  because  I  have  asked  if  there  was 
anything  in  those  base  words  thrown  at  you  —  that 
my  right  to  you  is  at  end?  "  he  asked,  in  slow  anger. 

"  That  is  what  I  mean,"  she  explained  simply ; 
"  your  question  about  Aletta's  vile  insinuations  of 
me  has  shown  that  your  love  is  not  what  you  thought 
it  —  is  not  what  I  thought  it ;  that  it  has  been  tried 
in  the  balance  of  those  words  —  and  found  want- 
ing." 

The  truth  came  home  to  him  then  —  she  was  the 
mother  of  the  child  —  of  little  Babs!  How  dense  he 
had  been  through  it  all  I  She  had  lied  to  him  on  the 
mountain-top;  had  deceived  and  misled  him;  had 
made  a  sport  of  him ! 

By  the  hardening  of  his  eyes  she  perceived  that  the 
truth  was  known  to  him  —  that  she  had  lost  him  — 
that  his  great  love  for  her  had  fallen  into  dust  and 
ashes ;  leaving  only  contempt,  scorn,  loathing  of  her 
in  that  heart  upon  which  she  had  thought  to  lean 
for  all  future  happiness. 

She  had  lost  him,  but  the  secret  was  hers.  He 
might  guess,  he  might  feel  convinced  that  this  thing 
was  really  so;  but  without  her  confession  he  never 
could  know,  never  could  be  certain.  And  sooner 
would  she  tear  her  tongue  from  between  her  teeth 
than  confess  the  misfortune  that  had  overtaken  her 


362  DIVIDED 

youth,  the  shame  that  had  fallen  upon  her  nameless, 
innocent  child. 

"  Found  wanting!  "  she  had  said;  "his  love  for 
her  had  been  tried  and  found  wanting !  '*  Scarcely 
realizing  what  had  happened,  with  the  low,  accus- 
ing, musical  ring  of  those  words  sounding  in  his  ears 
—  beating  upon  his  brain  —  Woodward,  with  un- 
certain tread  following  the  echo  of  those  light,  hur- 
rying footsteps,  passed  along  through  orchard  and 
garden. 


XIV 

It  was  late,  and  the  post-house  lay  wrapped  in  dark- 
ness save  where  a  gleam  of  light  spoke  of  the  dim  oil- 
lamp  burning  in  the  bar.  Wearied  with  a  three- 
hour  tramp,  Woodward  pushed  open  the  door  and 
found  Sinclair,  the  barman,  hushing  two  thirsty 
troopers. 

"  For  the  love  of  heaven !  you  chaps,  keep  your 
tongues  between  your  teeth !  God  alone  knows  how 
the  old  man  and  Miss  Margery  'ud  bear  hearing  of 
this." 

"  What  is  it?  "  asked  Woodward,  in  surprise. 

Sinclair  put  his  finger  to  his  lips;  the  troopers, 
who  recognized  in  Woodward  an  officer  of  the 
Irregular  contingent,  saluted. 

"  Seems  there's  been  a  bit  of  a  scrap,  sir,  so  we 
hear,"  said  one  man,  in  lowered  tones. 

"When*?  Where?"  asked  Woodward,  sharply. 

"Venter's  Hoek  way  .  .  .  about  daybreak, 
so  we  hear." 

"  Mister  Thane'll  be  bound  to  have  been  in  it," 
said  Sinclair,  when  the  troopers  had  noiselessly  de- 
parted, "And  Mister  George?  Lord!  Lord!  it 
makes  my  blood  creep  to  think  on  'em  two  coming  to- 
gether face  to  face  in  a  fight." 

363 


364  DIVIDED 

"  Hush !  "  said  Woodward  apprehensively,  fear- 
ing every  moment  to  see  Margery's  white  face  look- 
ing in  upon  them.  .  .  .  She  must  be  spared  the 
news  this  night  .  .  .  she  must  be  left  to  sleep 
in  peace  .  .  .  God  alone  knew  when  peaceful 
sleep  would  again  come  to  her. 

The  oil-lamp  extinguished,  the  front  doors  bolted 
and  barred,  Sinclair  went  off  to  his  bed  leaving 
Woodward  a  prey  to  bitter,  unbearable  reflections 
as  he  paced  up  and  down,  to  and  fro,  the  length  of 
the  house-front  —  stopping  now  and  again  to  glance 
at  the  window  of  the  room  which  held  the  woman 
he  loved. 

"  What  a  fool !  —  what  a  damnable,  unmitigated 
fool  he  had  been  to  have  put  that  cruel,  coarse,  hu- 
miliating question  to  her^  "  What  would  he  not 
give  never  to  have  put  it?  In  the  terrible  news  to 
hand  of  that  morning's  encounter  between  the  rival 
forces;  in  the  overpowering  dread  of  what  that  en- 
counter might  mean  to  her  —  to  her  peace  of  mind 
• —  to  her  very  existence  —  Woodward  had  swept 
from  his  remembrance  all  thoughts  of  her  deception 
toward  himself,  all  those  cruel  imaginings  which  the 
very  thought  of  Babs  had,  during  the  agony  of  the 
past  burdened  hours,  conjured  up  for  him.  He  was 
conscious  only  of  the  outstanding  fact  that  sorrow's 
dread  touch  might  be  about  to  fall  upon  Margery; 
that  news  of  disaster  to  her  brothers  might  be  about 
to  descend  upon  her;  and  that  he  had  fallen  from 
her  love,  had  fallen  from  her  side,  and  had  Igst  the 


DIVIDED  365 

right  to  share  her  sorrow  and  to  help  her  through  the 
dark  hour  of  grief  and  suffering  and  bitter,  unspeak- 
able sorrow  which  might  even  now  be  at  hand,  wait- 
ing upon  the  threshold  of  her  home. 

The  night-breezes  —  warm  and  languorous  — 
sighed  around  him,  typifying  the  restless  sighing  of 
his  heart;  the  stars,  jewel-bright,  hung  silently  over- 
head; the  moon,  declining  westward  in  the  wide, 
cloudless  heavens,  threw  more  vividly  the  sombre 
shadow  of  World's  View  —  clear-cut  and  ominous 
—  across  the  portals  of  The  Outspan. 


BOOK  FOUR 


The  men  of  van  der  Merwe's  commando,  during 
the  several  months  they  had  been  banded  together, 
had  indulged  in  a  species  of  guerilla  warfare  pecu- 
liarly suited  to  their  tastes.  They  had  retreated  be- 
fore the  advance  of  the  enemy,  it  is  true,  but  in  such 
a  masterly  fashion  that  while  keeping  themselves 
well  out  of  sight  and  under  excellent  cover  they  had 
harassed  the  Irregulars,  sniping  at  them  by  day  and 
by  night;  thinning  their  numbers  by  stray  pot-shots 
delivered  from  krantz  and  spruit  and  low,  dense 
bush.  So  far,  their  campaign  had  been  a  picnic,  and 
it  was  not  until  the  latest  disquieting  reports  from 
their  runners  of  the  unusual  stir  among  the  forces 
of  the  enemy  caused  them  to  leave  their  safe  retreat 
—  in  full  numbers  and  somewhat  earlier  than  had 
been  originally  planned  by  their  leaders,  in  their 
endeavor  to  carry  out  the  ambush  up)on  which  they 
were  bent  —  that  this  picnic  was  suddenly  turned 
to  grim  battle. 

For  now  in  an  instant,  at  the  first  glimmer  of 
dawn,  the  enemy  with  whom  they  did  not  expect  to 
come  in  touch  for  the  next  twenty-four  hours  was 
upon  them.  While  they  woke  and  yawned,  and 
grasped  for  their  arms,  grim  war  was  upon  them  with 

369 


370  DIVIDED 

the  whizz  of  bullet,  the  screams  of  pain,  the  cries  of 
vengeance,  the  hissing  of  shot,  the  fearful  riving 
and  rending  of  body  and  limb,  the  horrible  presence 
of  carnage  and  death  strewn  over  the  veldt-world, 
polluting  the  air,  where  but  ten  minutes  since  the 
freshness  and  fragrance  of  the  awakening  day  alone 
had  reigned. 

Their  position  was  hopeless  from  the  first.  Aban- 
doning their  exposed  front,  the  burghers  dashed 
round  a  low  kopje  immediately  to  their  rear,  taking 
cover  in  a  gully  amid  a  patch  of  scrub  where  their 
horses  stood  tethered. 

"It  is  only  a  matter  of  time  to  force  them  out 
from  it,"  said  the  commanding  officer  to  Thane,  who 
rode  by  his  side.  "  Did  you  see  anything  of  your 
brother*?  "  he  asked,  lowering  his  tones. 

"Think  I'd  be  sitting  here  if  I  had*? "  Thane  re- 
torted excitedly.  "  No,  sir,  I'd  be  off  full  lick,  flee- 
ing before  the  foe,"  he  added,  with  a  short  laugh, 
"  if  I  had  seen  him.  But  I  looked  —  though  I  knew 
he  couldn't  be  here." 

"That's  well,"  said  the  other;  "you  keep  your 
eyes  open,  my  boy,  and  clear  out  if  you  spot  him 
.     .     .     we'll  understand." 

"He's  not  with  them  .  .  .  you  see,  Bouwer's 
news  to  his  wife  was  that  George  had  been  asking 
for  leave  for  months  past,  and  determined  to 
take  it  if  they  did  not  grant  it.  So  I  feel  sure  he'll 
have  taken  it  now,  since  he'll  have  had  this  opportu- 
nity now  he's  been  left  with  the  transport  a  day 
behind  the  commando." 


DIVIDED  371 

"  The  Boers,  of  course,  expected  those  left  behind 
to  come  up  with  them  here  before  tackling  us?  '* 
asked  the  Australian. 

"Of  course;  you  see,  they  weren't  expecting  us 
for  another  twenty-four  hours,  otherwise  van  der 
Merwe  would  never  have  waited  behind;  they'd  not 
have  left  any  of  their  men  behind;  the  wagons  and 
the  niggers  are  the  only  things  they'd  have  left  in 
camp,  had  they  guessed  of  the  little  surprise  await- 
ing them  here  this  morning." 

"  Aye;  we've  got  'em  bushed  properly  now." 

"They  hate  fighting  before  breakfast,"  laughed 
Thane.  A  strange  sense  of  exhilaration  had  swept 
over  his  whole  being,  replacing  his  late  tempestuous 
and  sullen  mood.  He  could  have  laughed  aloud  for 
the  pure  and  simple  joy  of  finding  himself  alive  and 
facing  the  delight  of  battle.  George  had  gone  home, 
and  there  he  should  find  him  safely  on  his  return. 
Meanwhile  the  fact  that  a  tough  hand-to-hand  fight 
with  the  Boers  was  at  hand  did  not  cause  him  any 
discomposure;  though  that  the  burghers  would 
eventually  emerge  and  close  with  them  in  a  desper- 
ate fight  for  their  lives  he  recognized  as  a  certainty. 
The  Northern  Transvaalers  had  been  taught  by  in- 
cidents —  terrible,  yet  inevitable  —  of  the  uncom- 
promising temper  of  the  opposing  force  —  the  great 
army  of  the  Irregulars  —  who,  irritated  to  frenzy 
by  acts  of  treachery  upon  their  comrades,  had  here, 
as  elsewhere,  given  ample  proof  of  the  swift  and  sure 
vengeance  they  were  determined  to  wreak  upon  any 


372  DIVIDED 

crooked  dealings  practiced  by  their  opponents  on 
the  battle-field.  Even  now  the  men  of  the  contin- 
gent might  he  heard  shouting  to  each  other  to  remem- 
ber their  trapped  and  murdered  comrades,  and  to 
pay  no  heed  to  any  signs  of  surrender.  "  Don't  be 
bamboozled  by  any  damned  white  rag! 
No  quarter,  chaps  .  .  .  give  'em  beans  and  no 
quarter !  "  they  called  savagely  one  to  another  across 
the  stillness  of  the  dewy  morning  —  their  pulses 
afire,  their  faces  aflame,  ready  to  give  and  to  take 
death-dealing  blows.  Men  in  the  lust  of  battle  are 
more  ferocious  than  wild  beasts,  and  when  to  the 
lust  of  battle  is  linked  the  wild  call  of  vengeance 
upon  murdered  countrymen  and  comrades,  to  the 
senseless  fury  of  pure  savage  animalism  lusting  after 
blood  and  life  there  is  added  the  conscious  reasoning 
of  devils  incarnate,  bent  on  diabolical  deeds.  In 
Thane's  heart  there  was  no  thought  of  vengeance; 
it  was  the  joy  of  battle  alone  —  the  wish  to  hurl  his 
mighty,  uncurbed  passions  against  someone  or  some- 
thing equally  mighty,  equally  uncurbed  —  which 
set  his  pulses  leaping  within  his  big  body.  The 
weight  and  anxiety  of  the  past  months  that  had 
pressed  so  heavily  upon  his  mind,  the  bitterness  and 
sullen  ferocity  and  furious  hatred  —  all  were  gone. 
He  stood  squarely,  face  to  face  with  an  indomitable 
foe,  "  spoiling  "  —  as  he  himself  put  it  to  his  friends, 
with  the  faint,  good-humored  smile  so  long  absent 
from  his  handsome  face  once  again  softening  its 
hardness  —  "  spoiling  for  a  fight." 


DIVIDED  373 

"  Well,  we'll  get  it  hot  enough,  don't  you  fear?  " 
laughed  the  commanding  officer.  "  Look  out  there, 
you  fellows  .  .  .  look  slippy.  .  .  ."  He 
shouted  his  orders  to  his  officers  in  cheerful,  sharp 
fashion.  "  Keep  the  men  under  cover  and  let  them 
blaze  on  the  beggars  as  they  pop  out." 

The  Boer  leaders  were  at  the  same  moment  heart- 
ening up  their  cowed  followers  by  alternate  threats 
and  entreaties,  and  rough,  persuasive  reasonings  min- 
gled with  cant  phrases  and  volleys  of  oaths  and 
curses. 

"Get  together  I  Get  together!"  the  old  com- 
mandant bellowed  in  stentorian  tones.  "  We'll  out- 
wit them  yet  —  the  godless,  white-livered  curs;  in 
the  might  of  the  Lord  we'll  send  them  whimpering 
back  to  the  hell  from  whence  they  have  been  drawn 
to  do  their  devil's  work  on  our  land.  You  sergeants 
there,  every  man  by  his  horse;  get  your  men  in 
order ;  then  mount,  and  as  soon  as  the  order  is  given, 
use  your  sjamboks  if  they  don't  take  it  at  the  trot. 
.  .  .  What's  that*?  Who's  for  sneaking  behind? 
We  don't  leave  a  man  with  our  wounded.  What 
would  be  the  sense  of  that,  seeing  these  are  the  sort 
of  devils  that  shoot  them?  " 

There  was  some  murmuring  at  this,  but  the  com- 
mandant waved  aside  the  voices  of  the  dissentients 
and  thundered  on:  "As  we  round  that  ko'p'je  —  at 
top-speed,  men  —  scheit!  scheit!  .  .  .  Every 
man  bring  down  his  buck  with  every  shot  he  fires, 
or  Oom  Koos  will  want  to  know  the  reason  why. 


374  DIVIDED 

Then,  before  they  can  wink  away  your  powder  from 
their  eyes  —  those  who  are  left  to  wink  or  blink  — 
ride,  men,  rdde  J  Hde! — ride  as  though  Satan  himself 
were  on  your  heels !  and  we'll  get  through  them  well 
enough,  and  live  to  thank  the  Lord  for  His  merciful 
deliverance  of  us  from  the  battle." 

But  many  among  old  Koos'  followers  were  in- 
clined to  hold  back  from  this  bold  move.  "  It's 
death  to  us,"  they  grumbled.  "  We  didn't  come  out 
to  join  your  commando,  leaving  our  farms  and  our 
wives  and  our  children  unprotected,  simply  in  order 
to  be  potted  like  rabbits  feeding  in  the  grass  before 
sun-up.  Let  us  wave  a  white  flag!  Here's  a  shirt 
handy  .  .  .  here's  another  ...  let  us 
make  it  quite  plain  lest  they  should  pretend  not  to 
have  seen." 

The  weakness  of  the  Boer  forces  lay  in  their  sturdy 
rebellion  against  orders  which  did  not  meet  with 
their  approval,  in  their  resistance  to  the  wishes  of 
their  leaders  when  these  did  not  coincide  with  their 
own  idea  of  the  fitness  of  things.  These  independent 
burghers,  gathered  together  from  their  farmsteads  on 
the  distant  outlying  districts  of  the  Transvaal,  re- 
fused on  the  battle-field  to  acknowledge  any  one 
superior,  autocratic  authority,  when  such  appeared 
to  them  as  likely  to  lead  to  certain  disaster.  Fools 
and  idealists  might  glory  in  forlorn  hopes  and  wild, 
heroic  charges;  they  were  practical  men,  holding 
life  as  a  valuable  gift  which  they  prized  and  under 
no  conditions  would  recklessly  endanger.     There 


DIVIDED  375 

were  their  wives  and  little  ones  to  be  remembered, 
far  off  in  their  isolated  homes  of  the  back-veldt,  ex- 
posed to  the  dangers  that  lurked  around  from  their 
twin  enemies  —  the  white  invader  and  the  black 
marauder.  They  stiffened  their  sinews  and  hardened 
their  hearts  to  resist  this  absurdity  of  a  charge.  In 
vain  their  leaders  grew  purple  with  rage,  as  they 
coaxed,  entreated,  threatened. 

van  der  Merwe  came  to  the  rescue. 

"  My  brethren,  be  guided  by  us  in  this  matter.  If 
we  ride  hard  and  shoot  straight  —  every  man  by  his 
brother's  shoulder  —  the  Almighty  will  not  desert  us 
in  this  charge,  but  will  cause  to  go  astray  the  bullets 
of  our  godless  enemies ;  and  we  shall  break  through 
them  as  certainly  as  that  the  day  breaks  through  the 
night." 

"Nooit!  Nooit!  We'll  surrender!  It  is  surely 
the  will  of  the  Lord  that  we  surrender  and  save 
our  lives,  since  there  are  our  women-folk  and  chil- 
dren left  on  the  farms,"  burst  out  the  discontented 
burghers. 

"  And  be  shot  when  you  surrender ! "  shouted 
Prinsloo.  "  Cowards !  have  you  then  forgotten  your 
comrades —  shot  down  after  they  had  surrendered*? 
Have  you  no  heads  to  remember  their  fate  and  the 
fate  of  the  wounded  —  shot  all  alike  by  this  same 
man  of  blood  who  is  standing  there,  just  round  the 
kopje^  waiting  for  us  to  come  out*?  White  flag  or 
no  white  flag,  believe  me,  men,  he'll  shoot  us  down 
without  mercy  so  soon  as  we  show  ourselves  |  " 


376  DIVIDED 

"Not  he  I  .  .  .  the  flag  will  protect  us," 
shouted  several  voices  in  reply.  One  burly  burgher 
climbed  upon  an  ant-heap  and  waved  an  arm  for 
attention.  "  You  listen  to  me,  comrades,"  he  cried, 
gruffly,  "  he  shot  that  lot  —  no  more  than  some  half- 
dozen  men  —  because  they  had  let  themselves  be 
found  out  when  they  played  that  trick  on  his  broth- 
er-officer. Has  our  commando  been  guilty  of  such 
conduct?  No,  my  brothers,  we  are  guiltless  —  so 
far  as  he  knows  —  therefore  it  stands  to  reason  the 
man  will  respect  our  white  flag,  and  simply  make 
prisoners  of  us  till  peace  comes." 

"And  treat  us  as  well  as  these  English  always 
do,"  said  a  sandy-haired  sergeant  with  pale-blue 
eyes.  He  was  busily  getting  his  men  into  order,  and 
gave  George  Brandon,  who  was  one  of  them,  a  slight 
shove  to  get  into  position. 

"  What's  that,  Bouwer? "  thundered  Prinsloo. 
"  You  ought  to  be  encouraging  your  men  instead  of 
talking  foolishness." 

"  It's  not  foolishness,"  answered  back  a  chorus  of 
voices.  "  The  man  has  no  grudge  against  us  as  he 
had  against  that  lot.  Besides,  we  have  heard  tell 
that  the  British  Commander-in-Chief  has  sent  strict 
warning  that  if  any  more  prisoners  are  shot  he'll  have 
the  officers  shot  in  return." 

A  jeer  of  laughter  at  this  inexplicable  attitude  on 
the  part  of  the  Commander-in-Chief,  at  this  extreme 
sensibility  over  the  natural  horrors  which  must 
necessarily  attend  guerilla  warfare  in  a  wild  and 


DIVIDED  377 

far-reaching  expanse  of  un-get-at-able  country,  broke 
from  the  lips  of  the  more  reckless  among  the  Boers. 
Their  horses  by  their  sides,  their  rifles  in  their  hands, 
their  stomachs  no  longer  empty  —  for  during  the 
above  discussion  their  leaders  had  seen  to  it  that 
they  had  partaken  of  the  breakfast  of  dough-cakes 
and  biltong  carried  by  each  man  ready  to  hand  in 
his  light  saddle-bag  —  fed  and  heartened,  the  Boers 
felt  more  disposed  for  battle;  and  their  objections 
finally  died  a  natural  death  after  they  had  been  fur- 
ther stimulated  and  animated  and  brought  to  the 
requisite  pitch  of  courage  by  the  soupje  of  dop  meas- 
ured out  in  small  tin  pannikins,  and  served  to  each 
man  in  turn.  To  each  Boer  it  was  as  the  Sacra- 
mental Cup,  imparting  to  each  individual  who  drank 
of  it  a  sure  and  certain  virtue  which  should  render 
his  person  immune  to  the  bullets  of  the  enemy. 


11 


"  Drink,  man,"  said  Bouwer  in  a  friendly  tone  to 
George.  "  Drink;  and  for  the  sake  of  your  wife 
and  sister  fight  today,  if  you  never  before  fought  in 
your  Hfe." 

George  glanced  at  him  steadily,  but  made  no  re- 
ply. Since  he  was,  by  some  miscarriage  of  plans, 
in  the  midst  of  this  oncoming  conflict,  there  remained 
nothing  for  it  but  to  ride  through  the  carnage  that 
awaited  them.  The  Boers  would  not  leave  him 
behind.  He  must  go  forward  with  the  commando. 
For  the  sake  of  those  dear  to  him,  those  loved  ones 
awaiting  in  a  cruel,  long-drawn-out  suspense  his  re- 
turn to  the  old  home,  he  told  himself,  he  must  ride 
for  his  life  through  the  ranks  of  friend  'and  foe.  This 
he  would  do.  But  he  would  not  fire  a  shot.  Upon 
that  he  was  still  firmly  resolved. 

"  I  run  the  same  risk  as  you,  man,"  Bouwer  ar- 
gued angrily,  as  though  the  consciousness  of  having 
forced  upon  his  friend  his  present  untenable  position 
weighed  upon  his  mind.  "  If  you  don't  fire  and  then 
get  hit  —  from  behind  —  why,  don't  blame  me, 
that's  all  .  .  .  I've  warned  you  what  to  ex- 
pect if  you  sit  tight  and  don't  use  the  roer" 

378 


DIVIDED  379 

As  he  dropped  his  voice  to  a  low  whine,  van  der 
Merwe  was  heard  bestowing  a  brief  but  hearty  bene- 
diction on  the  command.  "Amen  I  Amen  I"  came 
the  low  refrain,  swelling  from  a  chorus  of  gruff 
voices  and  drowned  by  the  sharply  shouted  "  For- 
ward! Forward!"  thundering  above  all  else;  by 
the  loud  crack  of  the  sjamboks  falling  upon  the 
flanks  of  the  leaping  horses.  With  a  thud  of  de- 
scending hoofs,  with  a  rush  of  oaths  and  impreca- 
tions, the  Boers  went  dashing  around  the  kopje^  and 
the  sharp  crack  of  the  rifles,  the  "  ping,  ping,"  of 
the  returning  shots,  broke  like  a  succession  of  thun- 
derclaps on  the  cloudless  beauty  of  the  calm  summer 
morning. 

The  sun,  rising  in  its  glory,  blinked  in  the  eyes  of 
the  enemy,  baulking  their  return  shot.  A  second 
volley  saluted  them,  and  a  man  at  Thane's  side  fell 
from  his  wildly-leaping  horse  as  it  bounded  for- 
ward. In  a  flash,  Thane,  still  bubbling  over  with 
the  fierce  joy  of  battle,  had  dug  spurs  lightly  against 
Buller's  side,  and  when,  with  one  huge  stride,  he  was 
brought  to  the  point  where  the  fallen  man  lay,  had 
seized  him  in  a  vise-like  grip  and  carried  him  beyond 
the  danger  zone.  As  he  stooped,  leaning  over  the 
prancing  Duller,  and  then  raised  himself,  leaning 
back  fearlessly  erect  —  a  broad,  massive  figure  in 
blue-and-white  striped  shirt,  with  bare,  bronzed  arms 
on  which  the  muscles  showed  taut  and  rope-like  — 
his  bigness  and  daring  marked  him  out  as  an  easy  tar- 
get for  the  enemy.    The  Boers  saw  him;  too  many  of 


38o  DIVIDED 

them  he  was  personally  known,  a  Transvaaler  like 
themselves,  though  now,  by  reason  of  the  war,  turned 
to  be  their  enemy.  A  volley  of  shots  pursued  him. 
A  cry  broke  from  out  their  ranks,  and  while  it  yet 
rang  out  —  unheard  by  reason  of  the  thunderclap 
of  the  resounding  shots  —  Thane  disappeared  from 
sight. 

"  You  knock  up  my  arm  a  second  time  and  I'll 
blow  your  brains  to  pieces !  "  Bouwer  exclaimed 
threateningly  to  George,  furious  at  his  diverted  aim. 
Who  could  tell  whether  the  bullet  sped  by  his  aim 
would  not  have  found  its  billet  in  the  fiery  heart  of 
his  disdainful  adversary,  a  charmed  life  though  he 
appeared  to  bear? 

"  Would  you  have  me  sit  by  while  you  shoot  down 
my  brother*?"  George  retorted,  fiercely;  and  Bou- 
wer, awed  by  the  sound  of  the  voice  and  the  terrible 
look  in  those  deep-set,  stern-blue  eyes,  fell  to  a  low 
remonstrance. 

"  Shoot,  man,  shoot !  or  you'll  get  shot  from  be- 
hind!" 

But  the  heir  of  the  Brandons  remained  Insensible 
to  his  words,  staggered  beneath  the  blow  which  had 
fallen  upon  him.  His  worst  fears  were  verified  since 
he  had  caught  sight  of  that  tall,  massive  figure  sitting 
fearlessly  astride  the  leaping  Buller,  calmly,  with  a 
grip  of  his  bared  right  arm,  dragging  from  out  a 
tangle  of  scrub,  from  beneath  a  hail  of  bullets,  a 
fallen  comrade.  Even  while  a  thrill  of  pride  and 
satisfaction   at   his   brother's   daring   and   courage 


DIVIDED  381 

stirred  his  generous,  loving  heart,  the  awful  knowl- 
edge that  he  and  Thane  had  come  face  to  face  in 
the  conflict  caused  his  heart  to  fail  and  his  pulses 
to  beat  low  and  faint.  In  this  moment  the  love  he 
bore  his  brother  robbed  him  of  the  natural  desire  of 
life  implanted  so  imperishably  within  a  man's  breast. 
After  such  an  encounter,  what  possible  future  could 
he  and  Thane  hope  to  pass  together?  Silently  he 
petitioned  that  death  might  find  him  out  if  but 
Thane  could  be  spared  the  knowledge  of  his  pres- 
ence among  the  commando. 

But  when  Thane  rejoined  his  comrades,  they  were 
charging  wildly  down  the  slope,  leaping  upon  the 
ranks  of  their  opponents.  In  another  moment  the 
combatants  were  inextricably  blended  in  a  strug- 
gling mass  of  horses  and  riders,  foe  breathing  into 
the  very  face  of  foe.  Men  fell  with  faces  blackened 
with  powder;  they  fought  hand  to  hand,  using  now 
the  revolver,  now  the  butt-end  of  the  Martini. 
Thane's  hand  was  on  Bouwer's  throat,  gripping  it 
mightily  as  he  swung  the  half-strangled  Boer  to  and 
fro.  Then  with  a  laugh  he  tossed  him  back  among 
his  comrades,  while  his  loud,  cheerful  "  Live,  Petrus ! 
I'll  spare  you  for  the  sake  of  old  days,"  rang  out 
through  the  clamor  of  the  combat.  Then  as  his  keen, 
roving  eyes  darted  over  the  ranks  of  the  enemy, 
they  sought  out  and  dwelt  upon  one  of  their  num- 
ber sitting  his  horse  in  a  strangely  familiar  fashion 
—  his  right  hand  holding  his  rifle  carelessly,  his 
knees  pressed  against  the  heaving  sides  of  the  big 


382  DIVIDED 

bay,  urging  him  forward  through  the  mass  of  strug- 
gling humanity  within  which  man  and  horse  were 
tightly  wedged,  while  with  his  free  hand  he  lightly 
shook  the  bridle-reins  as  though  encouraging  the 
frightened  animal  to  further  effort.  Thane  looked 
hard,  his  brow  darkening,  his  face  paling,  as  a  real- 
ization of  the  truth  slowly  forced  itself  upon  his 
stunned  consciousness  and  then,  as  in  a  lightning 
flash,  was  revealed  to  him.  7/  was  George  sitting 
there^  scarcely  a  couple  of  yards  ahead  of  him,  try- 
ing to  get  himself  and  Roona  through  the  melee! 
Thane  saw  him  clearly  for  a  moment  .  .  . 
then  a  mist  blurred  everything  before  his  eyes 
.,  .  .  sound  and  sight  suddenly  failed  him,  and 
the  deafening  roar  of  a  tumultuous  cataract 
drummed  and  thundered  in  his  ears,  drowning  all 
his  senses.     .     .     . 

When  he  nerved  himself  to  look  again,  his  eyes 
met  his  brother's.  George  was  looking  fixedly  at 
him  ...  he  was  staring  incredulously  at 
George!  .  .  .  On  his  brother's  face  there  was 
imprinted  a  look  so  full  of  tenderness  for  him,  an 
expression  so  charged  with  patience  and  resignation 
and  submission  to  the  fate  he  felt  had  overtaken  him 
in  his  acceptance  of  the  call  to  tread  the  thorny  path 
of  duty,  that  Thane  cried  out  like  a  child,  uncon- 
sciously stretching  out  his  arms  in  an  attitude  of  sup- 
plication; as  though  a  sense  of  his  past  unkindness 
to  his  brother  had  overwhelmed  him,  shattering  the 
pride  and  stubbornness  of  that  unbending  will;   as 


DIVIDED  383 

though  confessing  his  sin  and  imploring  forgiveness 
of  George,  as  in  the  days  of  their  early  boyhood.  All 
resentment,  all  violence,  had  died  out  of  his  obdu- 
rate heart.  There  remained  but  his  love  for  his 
brother,  freshly  revivified  throughout  his  wildly- 
leaping  senses  —  strong,  true,  all-possessive  as 
throughout  the  years  of  the  past.  It  was  Thane,  the 
child,  confessing  his  naughtiness  ...  it  was 
George,  the  boy,  with  the  ever-ready,  ever-generous 
response,  carrying  consolation  and  comfort  to  his 
little  brother.  For  even  as  with  mute  lips  Thane 
thus  asked  forgiveness,  George  as  instantly  under- 
stood, and  his  smile  and  nod  of  recognition  conveyed 
the  old  generous  comprehension  of  the  other's  need. 
From  the  elder  brother  —  in  this  second  of  time, 
amid  the  raging  of  the  combatants  around  and  be- 
hind him  —  the  bitterness  of  death  was  taken  away; 
at  peace  with  Thane,  he  was  content,  though  the 
price  was  the  laying  down  of  his  life. 

As  the  smile  lighted  his  face,  carrying  to  Thane 
that  forgiveness  he  craved,  the  sergeant  elbowed  him, 
provoked  by  his  action  in  refusing  to  use  his  rifle 
upon  the  enemy,  prodded  him  angrily  in  the  side. 
The  sight  was  too  much  for  the  frenzied  Thane. 
With  a  screaming  oath  he  charged  into  the  very  midst 
of  the  commando,  laying  men  to  right  and  left  with 
such  amazing  strength  and  wonderful  dexterity  that 
the  Boers  broke  and  fled  before  the  being  who 
appeared  to  them  to  bear  a  charmed  life.  They  fell 
back  before  the  impetus  of  his  lightning-like  advance, 


384  DIVIDED 

before  the  leaping  Buller  and  the  raining  blows, 
while  with  ringing  cheer  upon  cheer,  with  vengeful 
cries  and  lusty  oaths,  the  Irregulars  followed  closely 
in  his  wake  —  over  the  dead  and  the  dying,  over 
the  blood-stained  scrub  —  leaping  bush  and  ant-heap 
and  boulder,  on  they  swept,  scattering  to  right  and 
left  the  surviving  Boers,  rounding  up  the  prisoners, 
chasing  those  who  sought  escape. 

But  Thane  Brandon  they  left  far  behind.  For 
when  he  had  reached  the  spot  where,  but  a  moment 
before,  George  had  sat  his  horse,  smiling  across  at 
him,  his  brother  now  lay  limp  upon  the  veldt  —  his 
face  to  his  kinsmen,  his  back  to  his  countrymen,  a 
bullet  through  his  brain. 


ni 


As  Thane  stared  wildly  —  with  down-bent  eyes 
and  frowning,  puzzled  brows  —  the  Irregulars  fell 
upon  the  retreating  foe  with  such  force  and  impetus 
that  charged  and  chargers  were  swept  almost  in- 
stantaneously from  the  spot  where  their  comrades 
had  fallen,  and  the  battle  rolled  away  into  the  dis- 
tance and  ended  as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun.  Away 
across  the  immensity  of  the  plain  might  be  noted 
the  flying  horsemen,  pursued  for  some  little  dis- 
tance by  the  indefatigable  Colonials,  jubilant  at  the 
taste  of  hardly-won  victory. 

But  Thane  —  forgotten  in  the  swift  on-rush  — 
stood  looking  down  upon  his  brother,  while  the  noise 
of  battle  rolled  further  afield,  to  be  presently  con- 
trasted by  the  old  quiet  and  restfulness  of  the  famil- 
iar veldt-world.  It  was  then  only  that  realization 
slowly  dawned  upon  his  bewildered  brain,  and  after 
a  pause  he  stooped  and  timidly,  with  hands  that 
shook,  turned  his  brother  upon  his  back;  then,  sit- 
ting down  beside  him,  raised  the  drooping  head  upon 
his  arms. 

His  eyes  were  hot  and  dry,  his  temples  throbbed, 
his  reason  refused  to  act,  his  brain  whirled  confused- 
ly.   His  brother  he  no  longer  saw,  yet  he  was  aware 

385 


386  DIVIDED 

of  his  presence ;  aware,  too,  in  some  vague,  fearful, 
sub-conscious  fashion  that  an  ill-omened  shadow  had 
fallen  across  his  path;  that  though  he  held  George 
in  his  arms  against  his  breast,  yet  it  was  not  George 
himself  that  he  thus  held,  but  an  illusion,  a  shadowy 
image  called  up  from  the  recesses  of  his  over-heated 
brain  —  stunned  by  the  thunder  and  clamour,  the 
blows  and  buffetings,  the  whistling  and  singing  of 
bullet  and  shot  that  had  been  so  inextricably  blended 
during  the  raging  of  the  short,  sharp  conflict  but 
barely  past. 

Later  on,  as  compelled  gently  toward  a  return  of 
his  understanding  by  soothing  contact  with  the  still- 
ness of  the  wild,  dreamy,  open  veldt;  of  the  fresh, 
translucent  air;  of  the  very  desolation  surrounding 
him  —  the  truth  sank  into  his  mind,  piercing  his 
heart,  touching  his  soul  with  an  icy  dread,  with  such 
a  fear  as  had  never  before  touched  his  bold  nature. 
The  fear  and  the  dread  touched  the  portals  of  his 
being;  it  was  as  though  the  dread,  cold  hand  of 
death  itself  were  laid  upon  his  heart,  quenching  all 
vitality  and  warmth  within  his  frame  beneath  its 
icy  pressure.  His  heart  faint  with  horror,  his  mind 
black  with  fear,  his  consciousness  stunned  before  the 
oncoming  of  full  realization,  his  body  drenched  with 
cold  sweat  of  terror  —  Thane,  staring  with  unseeing 
eyes  at  the  dead  man,  suddenly  drew  George  closer 
within  his  arms,  crying  in  an  imploring,  frantic 
tone :  "  George !  George !  old  chap !  how  is  it  with 
you,  man"?  They  haven't  hurt  you  much,  have 
they?  " 


DIVIDED  387 

He  fell  again  into  unreason,  stupefied  to  the  point 
of  insensibility  by  the  blow  that  had  fallen,  swift 
as  a  bolt  from  the  blue,  upon  his  late  exultation  of 
the  preceding  moments.  He  was  stunned  —  not 
alone  by  the  fact,  unnerving  in  itself,  that  his  brother 
had  been  actually  present  among  the  enemy  whom 
they  had  seen  so  fiercely  opposing,  but  that  he  was 
made  one  with  those  sturdy  sons  of  the  soil  defend- 
ing their  mother-land,  who  within  the  last  ten  min- 
utes of  time  had  laid  down  their  lives  for  the  free- 
dom of  that  land  so  dear  to  them.  It  was  George, 
and  not  an^other  —  soldier,  patriot,  victim  of  far- 
reaching  issues  started  afar  from  the  scene  of  their 
bitter  finality  and  leading  in  their  conclusion  to  a 
condition  of  civil  warfare  —  who  had  thus  met 
death  on  the  battle-field. 

As  he  wondered  —  now  dully,  now  overcome  by 
the  touch  of  that  black,  icy  horror  —  Thane  heard 
himself  called,  and  looked  with  unseeing  eyes  on  his 
returning  comrades,  who,  flinging  themselves  from 
their  sweating  horses,  bent  over  the  burden  he  held 
jealously  within  his  arms. 

"  Lay  him  down,  Brandon,"  said  the  little  Army- 
surgeon,  and  with  a  muttered :  "  Oh  .  .  .  it's 
you.  Doctor,"  Thane  obeyed. 

"  Leave  him  to  Doc,  Brandon.  .  .  .  Come 
away  for  a  bit,  old  man,"  urged  his  friends,  sym- 
pathetically —  one  glance  at  the  still  form  and  calm 
face  confirming  their  worst  fears.  But  Thane,  trem- 
bling and  ashy  pale,  motioned  them  aside  as  with 


388  DIVIDED 

burning  eyes  he  followed  every  movement  of  the  sur- 
geon. Mac-Mac  —  as  the  men  of  the  contingent 
had  affectionately  named  the  plucky  little  doctor  — 
while  he  went  through  the  formalities  of  opening 
the  shirt-collar,  and  putting  his  ear  to  the  heart  of 
the  dead  man,  was  nerving  himself  to  the  hard  task 
of  answering  the  question  hovering  on  the  lips  of  the 
distracted  Thane. 

"  You  don't  give  him  up?  .  .  .  He's  not  a 
dead  man?  "  he  asked,  in  the  voice  of  a  man  hoarse 
and  tired. 

The  doctor  waited  a  moment;  dead  silence  fell 
upon  the  little  group.  Mac-Mac  knew  he  must 
speak  ...  it  was  infernally  hard  upon  him 
.  .  .  these  scenes  were  beginning  to  spoil  his 
enjoyment  of  life.     .     .     . 

"  He'd  not  have  suffered  at  all,"  he  said  awk- 
wardly enough;  then  seeing  from  Thane's  face  the 
doubt  that  still  clouded  his  mind,  he  spoke  plainly. 
"  Death  would  have  been  instantaneous  ,  .  . 
bullet  in  the  brain  ...  no  suffering,  though; 
let  that  be  your  consolation,  Brandon,  if" — he 
added,  rising  to  his  feet  and  addressing  his  remarks 
to  the  men  who  stood  by  —  "  if  there  is  any  sort  of 
consolation  to  be  derived  from  the  whole  infernal 
business  of  war." 

Then :  "  Help  him,  there !  "  he  cried  sharply,  as 
Thane's  big  figure  swayed,  his  arm  swinging  out 
helplessly.  They  caught  him  as  he  would  have 
fallen,  and  helped  him  to  a  seat  on  the  grass;  then 


DIVIDED  389 

stood  silently  by  as  he  sat  bending  forward,  his 
elbows  resting  upon  his  knees,  his  face  buried  in  his 
hands.  The  doctor  put  a  flask  to  his  lips,  but  he 
pushed  it  impatiently  aside.  Low  mutterings  of 
agony  that  no  physical  pain  could  have  forced  from 
his  obdurate  will  escaped  from  his  tortured  heart, 
while  from  his  stiff  lips  there  fell  curses  and  blas- 
phemies which,  uttered  in  the  presence  of  that  silent 
form,  brought  a  sense  of  infinite  horror  to  his  hear- 
ers, rough  though  their  lives  had  been.  It  was  ter- 
rible to  them  to  see  the  burly  figure  attempt  to  rise. 
It  was  heart-rending  to  see  him  as  often  fall  nerve- 
lessly upon  his  knees,  while  the  sweat  poured  from 
the  haggard,  pallid  face  and  the  red-rimmed,  haunted 
eyes  were  frightful  to  look  upon.  But,  despite  his 
desperate  efforts  to  shake  off  the  deadly  collapse  of 
mind  and  body  that  was  gradually  stealing  over  him, 
threatening  to  overpower  him,  that  was  forcing  him 
to  the  ground  in  its  iron  grip.  Thane  sank  beneath 
the  effects  of  the  blow,  finally  coming  down  in  a 
heap  upon  the  bosom  of  mother-earth  within  a 
hand's  reach  of  his  brother. 

"  Thank  the  Lord  for  this  respite  for  the  poor 
chap,"  said  the  doctor;  "it's  been  a  fearsome  sight, 
boys !  "  They  carried  him  from  the  spot  and  laid 
him  in  an  open  patch  of  scrub,  higher  up  the  slope, 
near  where  the  camp-fires  were  already  leaping  high, 
piled  with  dry  brushwood  which  the  men  had  hastily 
collected.  "We  want  some  breakfast  after  this 
business,"  they  told  each  other  as  they  talked  to- 


390  DIVIDED 

gether  in  lowered  tones  of  the  poor  chap  stretched  on 
the  clearing  amid  the  scrub.  ...  It  was  a 
hard  case,  they  said,  damned  hard  I  this  game  of  set- 
ting the  two  white  races  in  the  sub-Continent  at 
each  other's  throat  —  a  man  must  stand  in  battle 
against  his  own  brother.     .     .     . 

Their  next  service  was  to  wind  within  the  folds 
of  the  longest  military  cloak  obtainable  the  rigid 
form  of  the  dead  man,  who  was  then  laid  by  the 
side  of  the  other  dead ;  and  no  means  of  conveyance 
being  at  hand,  they  bent  to  the  task  of  hollowing  a 
wide,  shallow  grave  in  the  nearest  patch  of  sandy 
soil.  Here  was  War,  with  its  attendant,  Death,  in 
its  true  colors  and  unvarnished  reality !  These  com- 
rades of  theirs,  the  men  scratching  at  the  sandy  earth 
to  cover  all  that  was  left  of  them  had  been  but  half- 
an-hour  previously  full  of  life  and  vigor,  charging 
their  enemies  furiously,  and  leaping  their  horses  like 
wolves;  now  there  they  lay  in  a  long  row,  side  by 
side,  stark  and  still,  as  insensible  as  the  stones  on 
the  veldt ! 

"Oh,  curse  the  war!"  said  the  little  medico, 
"  and  cursed  be  all  who  bring  it  about !  "  He  was 
still  chafing  under  the  remembrance  of  that  horrible 
half-hour  he  had  gone  through  in  the  after-math  of 
victory.  "  I  thought  he  was  never  coming  round," 
this  to  the  brusque,  stern-faced  commanding  officer, 
who  had  ridden  up  on  his  return  from  the  chase  to 
make  special  inquiries  after  Thane  Brandon,  whose 
tragic  story  had  already  reached  hin?. 


DIVIDED  391 

"  And  now*?  "  he  asked,  laconically. 

"  Now  he  sits  over  there,"  the  doctor's  thumb 
jerked  toward  the  patch  in  the  scrub,  "  dumb  .  .  . 
his  head  between  his  hands.  Who  can  make  him  eat, 
or  drink,  or  speak*?    Not  I;  yet  something  must  be 

done  to  rouse  him  or "  he  tapped  his  temples 

significantly. 

After  a  moment's  pause,  the  officer  turned  and 
walked  to  the  clearing.  Round  the  edge  of  the  low 
bush  he  found  Thane  in  the  attitude  described.  In 
silence,  unperceived,  he  stood  for  long  looking  on 
the  young  Transvaaler;  all  his  own  private  suffer- 
ings for  a  friend,  treacherously  betrayed  to  death, 
revived  and  intensified. 

"  When  stones  weep  they  shed  tears  of  blood," 
and  a  mist,  blood-red  in  hue,  veiled  the  eyes  of  this 
once  kindly-natured  man,  whose  heart  had  turned 
to  iron  and  whose  brain  had  been  kindled  to  frenzy 
under  the  weight  of  a  cruel  blow  inciting  every 
sense  within  him  to  the  perpetration  of  a  hastily- 
provoked  retaliation  of  the  death  of  his  comrade. 
His  voice,  when  he  spoke,  was  deeply  compassionate. 

"  Brandon,  this  is  rough  luck." 

Thane  uplifted  red-rimmed,  bloodshot,  vacant 
eyes.  The  other  stooped  to  his  side,  holding  his 
hand  closely  between  his  own  as  he  talked  in  the  sim- 
ply-sincere tones  that,  in  some  dim  fashion,  restored 
the  sense  of  normality  to  the  huddled  figure  by  his 
side.    Again  Thane  attempted  to  stumble  to  his  feet. 

"I  —  must  —  take  —  him  —  home,"  he  mut- 
tered, thickly. 


392  DIVIDED 

"  We  will  help  you,  Brandon  .  .  .  I'll  get 
Jimmy  Smith  to  go  along  with  you  .  .  .  you're 
good  pals,  aren't  you?  " 

Thane  nodded  vacantly. 

"Pull  yourself  together,  my  boy;  eat,  drink, 
though  the  world  has  gone  for  us  .  .  .  men 
can't  afford  to  sit  down  and  hug  their  griefs.  .  .  . 
Eat,  my  boy,  so  that  strength  will  come  back  to 
you;  and  when  you've  buried  your  poor  brother, 
then  it  will  be  up  and  after  them  again  ...  a 
man  gets  a  chance  to  forget  the  sorrow  while  hell  is 
let  loose  around  him  on  the  battle-field,     .     .     ." 

And  Thane  nodded  and  staggered  blindly  upward, 
only  to  sag  again  in  a  heap  upon  the  veldt. 

"  Wait,  my  boy,"  said  the  officer,  and  fetched  him 
food  and  a  pannikin  of  coffee.  Thane  swallowed 
the  hot,  black  liquid,  but  pushed  aside  the  bread  and 
bully-beef.    His  friend  understood,  and  said  nothing. 

Then,  in  silence,  while  the  dead  were  being  laid 
to  rest  in  that  shallow  bed  on  the  sandy  patch  of 
veldt,  he  sat  recapturing  his  bodily  nerve  and 
strength  for  the  task  before  him.  He  heard  the 
quavering  voice  of  the  little  doctor,  whose  province 
it  was  to  play  the  chaplain's  part  in  the  absence  of 
that  functionary,  rattling  aloud  in  jerks  and  snatches 
the  phrases  of  the  Lord's  Prayer.  It  was  the  doctor's 
invariable  substitute  for  the  orthodox  service.  "  Be- 
lieve me,  the  poor  chaps  like  it  a  deal  better  than  all 
that  other  highfalutin',"  he  was  wont  to  impress 
upon  his  hearers;  though,  at  the  conclusion  of  the 


DIVIDED  393 

prayer,  he  would  as  invariably  add  the  "  dust  to 
dust;  ashes  to  ashes"  of  the  proper  ritual.  The 
sandy  earth  fell  noiselessly  —  soft  as  powdery  fleeces 
of  snow  —  upon  the  silent,  cloaked  forms  filling  that 
common  grave.  Comrades  heaped  in  the  earth,  then 
raised  a  boulder  of  stones;  and  so,  their  sad  duty 
over,  the  troop  was  marshalled  into  order  and  crossed 
the  intervening  strip  of  veldt  to  take  possession  of 
the  farmstead  at  Venter's  Hoek  standing  solitary  and 
broken  as  it  faced  the  battle-field,  once  the  home 
of  a  united  and  happy  family,  but  now  —  with  shat- 
tered walls,  windowless  and  roofless  —  a  testimony 
to  the  cruel  havoc  wrought  by  the  war  in  this  back- 
veldt  of  the  Northern  Transvaal. 


IV 


The  tale  of  that  last  sad  journey  —  of  that  marvel- 
lous feat  following  upon  the  tragic  meeting  of  two 
brothers  face  to  face  on  a  Transvaal  battle-field  — 
when  the  younger  Brandon,  bearing  in  his  arms  his 
elder  brother,  rode  mile  upon  mile  across  the  wastes 
of  the  wide,  solitary  plain,  back  to  The  Outspan, 
who  among  those  who  knew  and  loved  the  gentle, 
chivalrous  George  and  the  hot-tempered  but  lion- 
hearted  Thane  can  recall  unmoved  from  the  ghost- 
haunted  chamber  of  the  heart  where  are  hidden  the 
memories  of  those  dark  days  of  the  Anglo-Boer 
War?  Certain  it  is  that  the  rare  moral  courage 
shown  by  the  elder  Brandon  in  the  performance  of 
what  appeared  to  him  as  a  duty,  and  the  superb 
physical  endurance  displayed  by  the  younger  Bran- 
don in  the  performance  of  an  act  of  brotherly  devo- 
tion, was  each  in  its  own  particular  way  one  of  those 
deeds  of  heroism  springing  from  among  the  dwellers 
in  those  humble,  scattered  homes  of  the  veldt-world 
which  lightens  for  every  white  South  African  with 
a  touch  of  Heaven's  undimmed  brightness  the  lurid 
picture  of  the  grim  struggle  of  those  days  of  blood- 
shed and  battle  and  death.  Nor  can  the  history  of 
these  two  brothers,  upon  whom  the  tragic  happen- 

394 


DIVIDED  395 

ings  of  the  war  fell  in  fullest  severity,  serve  to  fail 
to  bring  home  to  the  hearts  of  both  the  Dutch-speak- 
ing people  of  South  Africa  as  forcibly  as  to  English- 
speaking  South  Africans  the  abiding  sense  of  this 
outstanding  fact:  that  the  sufferings  caused  by  the 
war  fell  equally  upon  the  one  as  the  other  I  The 
graves  of  our  battle-fields  cover  bitter  memories,  but 
these  memories  are  common  to  both  the  white  races 
of  South  Africa.  Upon  the  realization  of  this  in- 
contestable truth  alone,  upon  the  genuine  endeavour 
of  both  Dutch-speaking  as  well  as  English-speaking 
South  Africans  to  comprehend  this  truth,  depends 
the  future  well-being  of  South  Africa.  For  to  com- 
prehend is  to  forgive,  and  in  mutual  forgiveness 

alone  lies  the  basis  of  true  union. 

*  *  *  * 

Jimmy  Smith,  returned  from  a  fruitless  quest  at 
the  broken-down  farmhouse,  rode  back  to  the  open- 
ing in  the  scrub,  leading  by  the  bridle-reins  the  cap- 
tured Roona.  Missing  her  master,  the  big  bay  had 
remained  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  battle-field, 
quietly  cropping  at  the  herbage,  waiting  in  wise 
animal-fashion  the  return  of  the  accustomed  step. 
Thane,  now  on  his  feet,  threw  back  his  powerful 
shoulders  as  he  accosted  the  young  Australian. 

"  Any  luck?  "  he  questioned  briefly. 

"No  wheel  conveyance  of  any  kind  or  class," 
Smith  replied.  "  Boers  must  have  carried  off  every- 
thing last  time  they  were  round." 

Thane  nodded,  his  eyes  fixed  darkly  on  the  still 


396  DIVIDED 

form  wrapped  in  the  long  cloak,  over  which  he  kept 
guard. 

"Shall  we ?  "   Smith  began,  hesitatingly; 

then  turned  his  eyes  questioningly  in  the  direction  of 
the  newly-heaped  mound  on  the  veldt.  "  I  could  get 
some  of  our  fellows  to  come  over  from  the  farmhouse 
and  help." 

But:  "No,"  Thane  returned,  huskily.  "No, 
Smith,  I'll  do  it  .  .  .  I'll  take  him  home,  with  only 
you  to  come  along  of  us  ...  I  told  Cap  I  wouldn't 
have  any  of  the  others." 

"But,  old  man,"  began  Smith  again,  when  his 
friend  interrupted  with  a  fierce :  "  He  goes  back  to 
The  Outspan,  if  I  carry  him  on  my  shoulders  every 
inch  of  the  way." 

Smith  gazed  longingly  towards  the  farmhouse 
where  his  comrades  were  enjoying  food  and  rest, 
smoking  lazily  as  they  stretched  themselves  at  full 
length  in  the  shadow  of  scrub  or  boulder,  drowsing 
and  recuperating  their  wearied  senses  and  persons 
after  their  late  strenuous  exertions.  But  he  was  a 
good-hearted  fellow,  and  for  the  friendship  he  bore 
the  Brandon  family  he  determined  to  stand  by  this 
wilful  son  of  The  Outspan. 

Thane  lifted  his  dark  brows  to  scrutinize  narrowly 
the  condition  of  the  three  horses.  Then  he  made  up 
his  mind,  resolving  upon  an  attempt  of  the  plan 
which  he  had  been  considering. 

"  Smith,"  he  said,  quietly,  "  you'll  get  on  your 
own  nag  and  ride  ahead  —  five  or  six  miles  —  lead- 
ing Roona.     There  wait  for  me." 


DIVIDED  397 

"  But  you  —  I  don't  understand." 

"  I'll  come  along  slow  —  BuUer  here  will  carry 
us  —  the  two  of  us,"  he  repeated,  huskily.  "  I 
reckon  he's  good  for  that  distance.  Then  I'll  take 
Roona  and  you'll  go  ahead  again,  leading  my  horse 
.  .  .  understand,  eh*?  That's  how  we'll  manage 
it  .  .  .  I'll  take  him  home  .  .  ." 

His  voice  slid  to  a  low  mutter.  Smith,  horrified, 
and  convinced  of  the  impossibility  of  the  task  to 
which  he  had  set  himself,  attempted  a  further  pro- 
test. 

"  But,  my  dear  chap,  aren't  you  over-estimating 
your  strength"?  .  .  .  How  could  any  man?  .  .  . 
You'll  never  .  .  ." 

The  protest  died  on  his  lips,  and  he  stood  staring, 
unable  to  move  hand  or  foot  at  the  task  of  assist- 
ance, staring  only  at  the  deft,  strong  movements  of 
the  young  giant  before  him.  Bending  his  square 
shoulders  and  broad  chest,  with  a  putting  forth  of 
his  full  strength,  Thane,  with  slow  deliberation, 
stooped  and  gathered  in  the  crook  of  his  right  arm 
the  lifeless  form.  George  lay  easily  across  the  broad 
expanse  of  his  brother's  breast,  his  head  resting  upon 
the  strong  right  shoulder,  while  with  his  left  hand 
Thane  caught  lightly  at  the  reins  of  the  stoutly- 
built  Buller,  swinging  himself  dexterously  into  the 
saddle.  It  was  a  feat  the  easier  of  performance,  in 
that  in  happier  times  both  the  brothers  had  practised 
this  deft  art  of  swinging  to  saddle  encumbered  by 
a  heavy  weight.    To  Thane,  with  the  successful 


398  DIVIDED 

performance  of  the  action,  came  a  blurred  recollec- 
tion of  the  feat  oft-times  accomplished  under  hap- 
pier circumstances,  when  with  Margery  or  Johanna 
in  his  arms  he  had  mounted  Buller,  with  George 
standing  by  applauding  his  giant  prowess  and  mar- 
vellous agility. 

But  of  all  this  Smith  knew  nothing,  so  continued 
to  stare  blankly;  while  Thane,  realizing  that  the 
weight  that  now  lay  within  his  embrace  was  a  dead 
weight  and  helpless,  must  needs  grip  tightly,  as 
Buller  —  scared  somewhat  by  the  unusual  burden  — 
danced  upon  his  hind  legs.  The  master's  voice  rang 
out  a  low  command,  and  the  horse,  subdued  to  quiet, 
moved  steadily  along  across  the  virgin  veldt  in  the 
direction  of  the  rough  wagon-track  that  led  by  way 
of  World's  View  to  The  Outspan.  Then  at  last  it 
was  that  Jimmy  Smith  caught  a  long  breath  and  let 
fall  a  dozen  round  oaths  indicative  of  blended 
amazement  and  admiration ;  and  catching  at  Roona's 
bridle,  he,  too,  mounted  his  steed,  passing  Thane 
and  his  burden  with  a  brief  "So  long !  "  as  he  rode 
briskly  ahead,  moving  into  the  distance  of  the  bil- 
lowy, undulating  plain,  leaving  his  friend  to  follow 
slowly. 

Slowly  the  gallant  Buller,  with  his  double  burden, 
moved  onward,  covering  mile  after  mile  of  the  home- 
ward journey.  Slowly,  through  his  master's  seeth- 
ing brain,  swept  the  train  of  scorching  remem- 
brances held  within  the  last  few  hours.  Behind 
that  double  burden  of  the  living  and  the  dead  there 


DIVIDED  399 

fell  into  its  old  quiet  the  scene  of  the  day's  earliest 
dawn.  Now  upon  that  islet  of  the  veldt-world, 
rudely  disturbed  for  some  few  seconds  of  time  and 
space  by  the  short  but  sharp  conflict  —  while  the 
crack  of  the  rifle,  and  the  shout  of  the  conqueror, 
and  the  cry  of  the  wounded,  and  the  groan  of  the 
dying,  had  hurtled  through  the  calm  air  —  there 
settled  once  again  the  silence  of  the  simmering  noon- 
day. Before  it,  through  the  cloudless  expanse  of 
atmosphere,  was  visible  the  overshadowing  moun- 
tain —  the  goal  to  which  the  rider  pressed  —  blue 
in  the  far  distance.  The  murmur  of  insect  life  fell 
soothingly  on  the  hot  air,  and  the  bird  rose  song- 
less  out  of  its  nest  in  the  grass.  All  remained  un- 
changed, all  things  around  him  appeared  as  through- 
out his  life  he  had  known  them  to  be  —  all,  save  the 
ending  of  this  life  but  lately  throbbing  vigorously 
as  his  own.  Thane  cursed  the  war,  cursed  the  cir- 
cumstances leading  to  the  war,  as  he  moved  slowly 
onward. 

From  hour  to  hour,  throughout  the  long  day,  when 
the  blinding,  burning  rays  of  the  mid-day  sun 
struck  scorchingly  down  upon  his  defenceless  head 
—  with  blistering  lips  and  parched  throat  he  rode; 
changed  horses,  and  rode  again.  As  day  waned  and 
World's  View  appeared  but  a  stone's  throw  from 
the  spot  where  he  lay  —  worn  out  and  faint,  Jimmy 
Smith  rubbing  his  paralyzed  right  arm  —  both  men 
recognized  the  true  distance  still  to  be  traversed 
before  the  track  directly  below  that  highest  point 
would  be  reached. 


400  DIVIDED 

"  You  can't  do  it,  dear  old  chap  .  .  .  you'll 
never  do  it  .  .  .  Let  me  go  ahead  and  bring  over 
a  cart  from  your  place,  while  you  rest  here." 

"  I'd  rather  take  him.  Smith  ...  I'd  rather 
..."  gasped  the  other. 

"But  you  can't,  old  man;  you're  done  for,  and 
the  horses  are  done  for,"  objected  Smith,  compas- 
sionately. 

Thane  was  silent,  though  by  no  means  convinced. 
After  a  pause,  he  said,  brokenly: 

"  Smith,  it's  like  this  .  .  .  the  having  him  when 
they  hear  the  news  will  help  Margery  —  I'm  afraid 
for  her  .  .  .  the  having  him  to  see  to  will  help  her 
and  father  a  bit  —  just  at  the  first  go  off.  '  How 
are  they  going  to  be  told  it*?  '  is  what  I've  been  ask- 
ing myself  as  we  came  along  .  .  .  The  best  thing 
I  can  do  for  'em  is  t(?  put  George  in  their  arms  .  .  . 
he'll  speak  to  them  somehow  ...  If  there's  a  God, 
He'll  let  George  speak  to  them  a§  he  always  has 
spoken  to  us  —  comforting-like,  when  one's  in 
trouble,"  and  Smith  nodded  comprehendingly. 

The  sun  was  sinking  —  bidding  a  short  adieu  to 
the  warm,  sleepy  earth-world  in  a  burst  of  radiance 
that  turned  to  bars  of  gold  and  azure  and  crimson 
the  carpet  of  the  heavens.  Thane  lay  silent,  with 
down-bent  face,  until  that  brilliance  had  faded  into 
a  soft,  velvet-grey  out  of  which  pinpricks  of  silver 
gradually  emerged.  Then  he  rose  with  difficulty, 
moving  stiffly  over  to  where  the  horses  stood  to- 
gether  with   drooping   heads   and   heaving   flanks. 


DIVIDED  401 

Moisture  drenched  their  glistening  sides.  Water- 
less and  unfed,  bearing  alternately  throughout  the 
burning  hours  of  the  long  day  that  double  burden, 
both  Roona  and  Buller  were  in  a  state  of  collapse. 
Roona,  however,  Thane  judged,  might  carry  the 
burden  still  further. 

"  For  a  couple  of  miles,  Smith  .  .  .  we'll 
try  .  .  .» 

He  felt  the  sturdy  bay  sag  beneath  the  weight  as 
he  balanced  himself  in  the  saddle  and  caught  his 
feet  within  the  stirrups  —  felt  he  could  go  but  very 
slowly  now.  Step  by  step  through  the  closing-in  of 
the  evening,  seeming  as  vague,  shadowy  forms 
through  the  dim  light,  men  and  horses  moved  wea- 
rily along  the  track  winding  now  around  the  base  of 
World's  View.  Darkness  had  fallen  ere  they  passed 
within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  dimly-looming  home- 
stead, with  its  closed  doors  and  windows  upon  which 
the  starlight  struck,  causing  them  to  glitter  faintly, 
beckoning  as  it  seemed  with  persistent  entreaty  to 
the  dead  master  to  halt  and  dismount  and  cross 
once  again  the  portals  of  his  dwelling.  Jimmy 
Smith,  sick  at  heart,  the  tears  running  down  his 
tanned,  brick-red  cheeks,  turned  his  eyes  from  that 
silvery  radiance  stealing  across  the  darkness  as 
though  seeking  to  lure  back  to  his  home  the  dead 
man.  He  kept  ahead,  pulling  at  Buller's  bridle 
and  moving  along  in  the  silence  that  had  fallen 
upon  them  for  the  last  hour.  Then  his  horse,  tread- 
ing on  a  loose  stone,  floundered,  and  he  dismounted. 


402  DIVIDED 

"  I'll  lead  them  down  this  rough  bit,"  he  said,  send- 
ing his  voice  through  the  darkness.  Roona,  too,  had 
stumbled  badly  and  seemed  unable  to  carry  further. 
"  Help  me  down,"  Thane  muttered  in  a  stifled, 
hoarse  voice. 

His  strength,  too,  was  done;  he  was  shaken  as  by 
an  ague;  his  brain  reeled!  .  .  .  There,  before  him, 
on  the  plateau,  nestling  against  the  mountain-side, 
loomed  the  shadowy  outline  of  his  brother's  home. 
Never  more  would  he  return  to  it;  pass  up  and  down 
the  familiar  pathway  on  his  daily  visit  to  The  Out- 
span  .  .  .  never  again  take  pride  in  his  barley  and 
wheat-lands;  till  his  soil;  work  with  his  flocks  and 
herds  .  .  .  never  again !  ...  It  was  hard  to  realize 
this  "never"  —  to  realize  that  they  had  lost  him; 
that  they  would  no  more  see  that  broad,  well-built 
figure ;  that  fair,  kindly  brow ;  those  deep-set,  gentle 
blue  eyes  lighting  up  the  pleasant  face ;  nor  hear  that 
voice  ever  breathing  a  spirit  of  strong  affection  for 
those  dearest  to  him,  a  spirit  of  tolerance  and  kindli- 
ness for  his  fellow  men !  A  groan  forced  itself  from 
Thane's  lips  at  the  realization  that  George  was,  for 
the  last  time,  passing  in  sight  of  his  home. 

The  dogs,  barking  furiously,  rushed  to  greet  their 
master  —  then  slunk  back  to  the  homestead  —  all 
but  Nella,  George's  favourite  pointer,  who  crouched 
on  the  veldt,  howling  dismally.  Thane  shook  him- 
self fiercely,  bending  his  thoughts  to  the  exclusion 
of  all  else,  upon  the  conclusion  of  his  task.  With 
the  stir  of  the  old  sense  of  passion  in  his  veins, 


DIVIDED  403 

strength  returned  to  him  and  the  power  to  lift  that 
dead  weight  from  its  last  rest  upon  the  journey 
until  it  was  finally  laid  upon  the  threshold  of  The 
Outspan.  With  George  carried  now  in  both  arms, 
with  Nella,  scared  and  whimpering,  at  his  heels  — 
Thane  staggered,  stumbled,  recovered  his  footing 
and  turned  out  of  the  cart-track  into  the  footpath 
leading  directly  to  the  old  home.  His  walk  be- 
came almost  a  run.  Smith  —  leading  the  horses 
by  the  lengthier  but  less  rugged  cart-road  —  cried 
aloud  to  his  frightened  senses  that  the  man  had 
gone  clean  off  his  head,  for  surely  a  maniacal 
strength  alone  could  further  lift  and  carry  the  dead 
weight  of  that  heavy  burden !  .  .  . 

Past  the  grassy  patch  where  he  had  lingered  with 
Jo  —  past  that  silent,  fathomless  pool  into  which 
as  a  boy  George  had  fallen  to  defend  his  little 
brother's  honour  —  across  the  length  of  the  rustic 
bridge  creaking  ominously  beneath  the  double 
weight,  as  though  muttering  of  that  afternoon  six 
months  previously  when  he  had  stood  upon  it  cast- 
ing hard  words  at  the  dead  man  he  now  carried 
upon  his  breast  —  along  the  bank  of  the  dark,  un- 
resting waters  whispering  now  of  death,  and  part- 
ing, and  sorrow  —  Thane  moved  heavily,  swaying 
from  side  to  side  as  a  drimken  man  ...  his  breath 
escaping  from  his  labouring  lungs  in  sharp,  sobbing 
gasps  .  .  .  his  body  chilled  by  the  icy  sweat  that 
drenched  his  frame  ...  his  lips  bloodless  .  .  . 
"  God!  God!  "  he  cried  sharply,  and  then  held  his 


404  DIVIDED 

peace.  The  cry  fell  unconsciously,  for  it  was  not 
to  a  God  that  he  looked  to  carry  out  to  its  bitter 
finality  this  dread  task,  but  to  his  own  indomitable 
tenacity  of  purpose,  to  his  own  implacable  will,  to 
his  iron  nerve  and  to  the  superb  putting  forth  of 
his  manhood's  strength. 


Blindly  he  staggered  on,  still  forcing  his  pace,  his 
arms  tightening  around  his  burden.  He  could  hear 
old  Rover  from  the  front  premises  barking  furi- 
ously. He  could  hear  the  low  whimpering  of  Nella 
at  his  heels.  Then  a  light  suddenly  struck  upon  his 
sight,  issuing  from  the  dining-room.  The  door 
leading  on  to  the  back  verandah  was  thrown  open. 
He  saw  in  the  doorway  the  face  of  his  father, 
framed  in  the  grey  of  his  short  bushy  beard  and 
silvering  hair  .  .  .  then  Margery  ,  .  .  then  Wood- 
ward. 

*'  Someone  is  coming  up  the  garden."  Margery's 
anxious  eyes  were  the  first  to  detect  the  dark,  lurch- 
ing form;  her  quickened  senses  the  first  to  catch  the 
sound  of  that  labouring,  gasping  breath,  of  those 
quick,  shuffling  steps.  "  It's  Thane,  isn't  it"?  "  she 
called  aloud,  reassuringly,  as  she  hurried  down  the 
steps  to  the  gravelled  pathway  .  .  .  When  again 
would  the  echoing  musical  tones  of  her  haunting 
voice  ring  out  with  that  note  of  quick,  ready  sym- 
pathy, of  content  and  courage*?  Woodward  asked 
himself,  his  heart's  worst  forebodings  confirmed. 

Thane  lurched  ahead  of  her,  laying  his  burden 
across  the  threshold  of  the  old  home.     To  the  look- 

405 


4o6  DIVIDED 

ers-on  it  appeared  but  a  dark,  cumbersome,  cloaked 
object. 

"What  is  it?"  Margery  called  out,  sharply. 
She  snatched  the  candle  from  her  father,  holding  it 
aloft  so  that  the  flickering  rays  fell  directly  upon 
Thane's  gaunt,  hollowed  face ;  upon  his  red-rimmed, 
bloodshot  eyes;  upon  his  dishevelled  and  stained 
garments;  upon  his  blue  lips,  which  opened  and 
closed  with  difficulty  as  he  mumbled  with  spent 
breath,  his  voice  low  and  exhausted  as  the  voice  of 
the  dying. 

"  It's  George,"  he  said,  simply,  "  he's  been  shot 
.  .  .  I've  brought  him  home  .  .  ." 

Scarcely  understanding  —  the  cry  of  horror  that 
fell  from  their  lips  was  evoked,  not  by  any  sense  of 
harm  that  might  possibly  have  befallen  George,  but 
by  the  spectacle  of  the  frightful  object  presented 
by  Thane's  appearance  as  he  stood  there  before 
them  on  the  gravelled  pathway  with  haggard,  ashen 
face  from  which  had  been  wiped  as  with  a  sponge 
all  the  old  beauty  and  vigour  and  comeliness  of  his 
hardy  manhood.  That  face  was  now  withered, 
aged,  broken.  There  was  stamped  upon  it  the  rav- 
ages wrought  by  the  mental  suffering  and  physical 
strain  of  the  terrible  hours  through  which  he  had 
just  passed.  With  a  gaze  of  wildest  horror  Mar- 
gery stared  closely,  inquiringly,  into  the  changed 
and  terrible  face  of  her  brother,  and  in  return  the 
burning  eyes  gazed  into  hers  as  though  conscious  of 
horror,  and  remorse,  and  shame;  while  the  blue  lips. 


DIVIDED  407 

moving  soundlessly,  whispered  of  "  George "  and 
"  George "...  and  in  the  dark  background  the 
faithful  Nella' — with  hairs  bristling  and  jaws 
slobbering  —  crouched  and  whined  and  whimpered 
as  Woodward  and  old  Brandon  stooped  simultane- 
ously to  the  dark  object  at  which  Thane  pointed 
persistently. 

"  What  the  devil  is  it?  What's  gone  wrong 
with  you,  boy?  "  questioned  old  Brandon,  fiercely, 
as  his  heart  started  to  beat  furiously.  But  Thane, 
with  no  further  explanation,  merely  continued  his 
low,  unintelligible  mutter  the  while  his  massive 
figure  swayed  and  sagged  slowly  earthward. 


VI 


All  through  the  remaining  hours  of  darkness  were 
the  sounds  as  of  a  stir  —  of  coming  and  going,  of 
weeping  and  lamenting  —  in  the  home  of  the  Bran- 
dons; for  the  heir  to  The  Outspan  lay  dead,  and 
the  natives  —  in  their  own  peculiar,  speedy, 
stealthy,  noiseless  fashion  —  had  conveyed  the  tid- 
ings to  their  people  in  the  neighbourhood  of  The 
Outspan  and  the  Top  Farm  ere  Thane  had  recov- 
ered from  that  long  stupor  of  insensibility  into 
which  he  had  sunk. 

First  to  visit  the  death-chamber  where  lay  the 
pride  and  hope  of  the  family,  the  flower  of  the 
flock  —  their  kindly  friend  and  master  —  came  the 
stable-boys,  headed  by  the  wrinkled  Jonas  —  now 
aged  and  bent  and  feeble,  but  still  as  ever  cocksure 
that  the  Almighty  had  but  few  such  precious  boys 
to  spare  from  among  His  shining  hosts  in  the  angel- 
world,  on  loan  as  specially  valuable  gifts  to  earth- 
world  fathers  and  mothers,  as  this  most  gracious  boy 
and  man,  whom  he,  Jonas  himself,  had  rescued 
when  a  child  from  the  jaws  of  the  monster  haunt- 
ing that  bottomless  pool. 

"  He's  gone,"  said  Jonas,  the  tears  running  down 
408 


DIVIDED  409 

his  wrinkled  black  cheeks,  "  and  we  couldn't  ex- 
pect but  what  he'd  be  wanted  up  there  again  sooner 
than  another." 

The  stable-boys  had  been  followed  by  the  herd- 
boys,  and  these  again  by  the  field-hands  and  picca- 
ninnies —  by  every  man  and  boy  belonging  to  the 
double  homesteads.  Finally  came  the  women; 
weeping  and  wailing;  old  Lisbeth  —  whose  hand 
alone  had  been  permitted  to  help  Margery,  as  she 
lingered  over  her  bitter  task  of  this  final  loving 
service  to  her  brother  —  stood  looking  tearlessly  on, 
approving  of  this  loud  outburst  of  wail  and  sorrow 
as  indicative  of  what  was  but  right  and  due  to  her 
beloved  nursling.  Down  from  the  huts  of  the  Top 
Farm  homestead  swarmed  the  frightened,  chatter- 
ing natives  —  the  women,  carrying  the  babies  tied 
to  their  backs  —  the  girls,  big  and  little,  all  headed 
by  old  Sanna,  the  cook,  beating  her  withered  breast 
and  crooning  to  her  companions  of  how  in  the  deep 
of  the  night  she  had  heard  a  rushing  sound,  such 
as  of  Death  the  horseman  galloping  swiftly  by, 
while  the  Master's  dog  howled  and  whined  like  a 
thing  possessed  by  fear  at  the  presence  of  the 
Unseen. 

Aletta  awoke  at  the  usual  early  hour,  and  won- 
dered at  the  uncanny  stillness.  **  Jo,  wherever  can 
those  servants  be*?  —  surely  never  yet  in  their  huts 
—  the  lazy  schefsel?     I  must  go  and  wake  them." 

She  thrust  her  arms  into  the  sleeves  of  her  print 


410  DIVIDED 

bed-gown,  drew  her  kappie  over  her  fair,  tousled 
hair,  and  reaching  up  to  a  peg  for  the  sjambok  un- 
barred and  opened  the  house-door,  letting  in  a  shaft 
of  light  from  the  rising  sun. 

"  Sun-up,  and  those  lazy  devils  not  yet  to  the 
milking  I "  She  hurried  across  the  short  stretch 
of  sparkling,  bedewed  scrub  leading  to  the  huts, 
quaffing  in  great  draughts  of  invigorating,  fragrant 
air,  cracking  the  sjambok  loudly.  "  Come  out ! 
.  .  .  Come  out  there,  you  folk  .  .  .  Piet!  Zwart- 
boy!  Sanna!  Come  out,  people  I  .  .  .  Come  out, 
you  swilled  swine!  Are  you  all  dead?  —  or 
what*?  " 

Grim,  unwonted  silence  alone  greeted  her 
strongly-framed  request.  Frightened,  she  knew  not 
why,  Aletta  peered  searchingly  into  the  dark  re- 
cesses of  each  dimly-lighted  hut  in  turn,  only  to 
find  each  alike  empty,  each  alike  deserted  by  the 
inmates.  She  called  aloud  to  her  sister,  sending 
her  full  voice  sounding  shrill  and  loud  across  the 
unbroken  silence,  "  Jo  I  Jo !  Here,  Jo !  "  and  her 
sister  appeared  at  the  open  doorway  in  her  night- 
gown, yawning  sleepily. 

"Jo!  Jo!  something  is  up!"  cried  Aletta,  hur- 
rying towards  her.  "  The  natives  have  cleared 
out!  .  .  .  they  are  off  —  men,  women  and  chil- 
dren!    Whatever  can  it  be*?  " 

"They've  heard,  perhaps,  that  the  Boers  are 
coming:  you  know  how  quickly  they  get  to  hear 
news,"  suggested  Jo,  frightened  at  the  import  of 


DIVIDED  41J 

her  own  words;  for  if  the  Boers  were  coming,  cer- 
tain it  was  that  they  had  gained  the  victory  in  the 
expected  conflict;  and,  if  this  were  so,  what  of 
Thane  on  the  losing  side*? 

"  What  nonsense  I  "  returned  Aletta,  sharply.  "  I 
only  wish  it  were  —  that  they  were  coming  —  for 
that  would  mean  a  beating  for  the  Irregulars." 

"  So  it  would,"  agreed  Jo,  helpless  and  afraid. 

"  "toch!  "tockl  "  grumbled  Aletta.  "  Such  hap- 
penings are  enough  to  drive  a  poor  woman  stark 
mad !  The  cattle  there  —  all  waiting  to  be  milked; 
the  animals,  all  wanting  food  and  drink.  Come, 
Jo,  we  must  dress  and  go  and  find  help." 

"Where?"  asked  Jo. 

"To  The  Outspan,  of  course,"  Aletta  snapped 
crossly,  as  they  hastily  flung  on  their  clothes. 
"  They  must,  at  least,  find  us  boys  to  do  the  milk- 
ing, ^och!  then,  to  think  of  those  poor  cattle  bel- 
lowing out  there  for  human  beings  to  care  for  their 
needs,  and  those  devils  of  blacks  clearing  off.  Don't 
stop  to  do  your  hair,  Jo;  T^u-^eedn't  come  further 
than  the  bridge."        , 

They  slipped  down  the  rough  ,  ot-path  over 
whose  loose  pebbles  Tha.ne  had  stum]jled  some  few 
hours  previously.  The  Ixm.lUar  paxVway  recalled 
to  the  mind  of  the  elder  sister  a  dream  of  the  past 
night.  "Truth!  Jo,  but  I  feel  muddled  with  it 
all  .  .  .  Such  a  strange  sort  of  waking  dream  as  I 
had  in  the  night,  of  a  company  of  our  dead  —  rid- 
ing along  —  past  the  house  —  down  this  very  foot- 
path   " 


412  DIVIDED 

"  Aletta !  "  shrilled  Jo,  her  hand  laid  impulsively 
on  her  sister's  arm;  "  for  God's  sake,  hold  your 
tongue,  woman!  Don't  you  know  it  brings  ill-luck 
to  tell  one's  dreams  before  breakfast?" 

"  Don't  be  so  superstitious,  girl !  How  can  tell- 
ing the  dream  help  or  hinder,  since  if  it  was  sent  by 
the  Lord  it  must  surely  fulfil  itself?  But,  Jo,  as 
they  rode  by  there  was  a  fearful  barking  of  dogs 
.  .  .  and  in  my  dream,  it  seemed  to  me  they  were 
our  own  dogs  barking,  and  rushing  towards  the 
horsemen;  and  I  could  hear  Nella  whimpering  and 
howling  ...  I  could  see  her  stiff  and  scared  .  .  . 
all  her  hair  rising  in  terror,  for,  animal-like,  she 
could  perceive  that  band  of  the  dead  passing  our 
front  door." 

"  T^och!  Aletta,  but  what  a  fearsome  dream;  and 
now  that  you  mention  the  barking  of  the  dogs,  I 
seem  to  think  that  I,  too,  heard  them  barking  furi- 
ously in  the  night  —  or  was  I,  too,  but  dreaming*?  " 
asked  Jo,  wrinklinp  her  white  brow  in  sudden  per- 
plexity. ;J^    yu-.'0< 

"Or  war  J  at  the  open  do  did  we  really  hear 
them  barki    -^g  sleepily.  have  been  a  troop  of 

Ji,ving  men  "iomething  is  '  questioned  her  sister 
in  return.  ^'-her.  "T'  muddled,  Jo,  for  now 
that  I  come      i"''^'^  the  strange  happenings 

of  the  mornin  r  —  I  meant  to  have  told 

you  sooner  —  th^  iien  I  opened  the  house-door 
this  morning,  Nella  was  nowhere  to  be  seen." 

"  But  she  must  have  been  somewhere  about " 

began  her  sister. 


DIVIDED  413 

"  I  looked,  but  could  see  nothing  of  her,"  Aletta 
interrupted.  "  It's  awfully  strange,  for  ever  since 
George  left  she  has  never  slept  anywhere  but  across 
the  doorstep,  as  though  guarding  me." 

They  were  within  sight  of  the  bridge,  and  look- 
ing down  upon  the  stream  Jo  caught  sight  of  two 
forms  moving  along  the  rush-bordered  pathway 
leading  from  du  Bruyn's  Rust.  The  leading  figure 
was  tall  and  upright,  and  clad  in  the  easily-distin- 
guishable khaki.  A  pace  behind  the  soldier,  a 
bulky,  rotund  form,  swathed  in  a  loose  black  gown 
and  wearing  a  black  cotton  kappie  on  its  head, 
rolled  along  with  a  frantic  attempt  at  speed. 

"  But,  Aletta!  look!  look!  "  she  cried,  seizing  her 
sister's  arm  in  a  tight  grip.  "  Surely  that's  never 
Ma  coming  along  there  ^  .  .  .  and  yet " 

"  Yes,  my  word  I  it's  Ma  I  And  the  man  —  not 
Thane?"  Aletta  asked,  straining  her  eyes  in  the 
effort  to  obtain  a  clearer  view. 

"No  —  it's  that  Australian -»^  Woodward,  isn't 
it? "  '    '■ 

""toch!  "Hoch!  Jv  all  mean? 

My  God!  but  I'm  fi     ^^^   ''^"^^  '       '  at  are  they 

u     *o       *        ne  had  stumb    \  .  .1  •         ■, 
commg  about « —  tog     .      ,  ,  ,     ^t  this  ear' 7 

r  ^1  •      c,      rmiliar  pat' 

time  01  the  morning «  f 

"Ma,  perhaps,  comi  -1  the  cool  of 

the  day  .  .  .  and  may  h.. ,  ^  -e  captain,"  re- 

plied Jo,  but  without  convictiui/ in  her  tones. 

"It's  not  that  ...  If  George  —  'toch!  then, 
but  I  don't  know  what  to  think!  " 


414  DIVIDED 

Jo  broke  into  a  run,  but  Aletta,  a  faintness  over- 
powering her,  sat  down  on  the  grass  by  the  side  of 
the  track  awaiting  the  hearing  of  news  which  she 
felt  would  be  of  an  unpropitious  nature;  her  fair, 
comely  face  had  grown  muddy  and  pallid ;  her  heart 
beat  to  suffocation. 

She  heard  Jo  question  Woodward  and,  on  receiv- 
ing his  reply,  cry  out  sharply  .  .  .  Then  it  might 
be  Thane  .  .  .  God  would  be  merciful  and  spare 
the  righteous  and  slay  the  ungodly  .  .  .  George  or 
Thane  .  .  .  Thane  or  George  .  .  .  Upon  her  brain 
was  traced  in  fiery  characters  the  name  of  either 
brother,  stamping  each  alternately  on  her  confused 
senses;  her  lips  repeated  each  name  in  succession, 
mechanically  and  apart  from  any  conscious  inten- 
tion. 

Then  her  mother  was  waddling  up  to  where  she 
sat,  panting: 

"  My  poor  chest !  .  .  .  My  poor  widowed  child  I 
.  .  .  Ach!  Ach!  Almachtig!  To  think  that  the 
Lord  should  have  let  it  be  my  poor  sclioen-sonl  — 
mowed  down  along  with  our  brave  burghers,  while 
those  godless  schelms  escaped !  " 

"  George! "  screamed  Aletta,  springing  to  her 
feet  and  facing  Woodward.  "  Not  George  I  —  my 
God !  —  not  George !  " 

Woodward  bowed  his  head,  saying  bluntly: 

"Your  husband  fell  like  a  soldier,  Mrs. 
Brandon." 

"  Fell  dead?  "  she  questioned  wildly. 


DIVIDED  415 

"  Shot  through  the  brain  —  he  did  not  suffer," 
he  added  briefly. 

"And  to  be  buried  this  very  morning,  an  hour 
after  sun-up,"  wailed  Xante  Jacoba.  "  And  my 
coffin  already  taken  along  to  the  house  for  him  — 
lucky  it  was  a  full-sized  man's,  and  not  made  to 
my  measure,"  she  added  incoherently.  "  '^och! 
^ochl  The  dear  Lord  be  merciful  to  us !  Dead  — 
and  to  be  buried  in  less  than  an  hour  I  And  in  my 
coffin,  too,  over  which  the  dear,  gracious  soul  was 
ever  fond  of  having  his  little  joke.'* 

"  Where  is  he?  ...  I  must  go  to  him  ...  Jo! 
Ma !  help  me  to  go  to  my  husband !  "  Aletta  quav- 
ered in  shrill,  horrified  tones.  Then  she  sank  again 
heavily  to  the  gri^s  and  the  three  women  wept  in 
each  other's  arms. 


vn 


The  weeks  had  slipped  by  since  that  early  morning 
when  George  Brandon  had  been  lowered  into  the 
resting-place  prepared  for  him  by  the  side  of  his 
mother  and  little  ones.  In  the  small,  grass-grown 
cemetery  adjoining  the  garden,  the  birds  —  from 
leafy  branches  of  tall  poplars  and  gracefully-sway- 
ing syringas  —  sang  and  twittered  and  whistled  in- 
cessantly and  joyously  throughout  the  cool  of  the 
day,  while  from  the  drooping  willows  nearer  the 
stream  the  low,  melancholy  not?  of  the  ring-dove 
struck  across  that  outpouring  of  rapture  as  insist- 
ently as  sorrow  across  joy,  as  dark  across  light,  as 
death  across  life  —  and  the  rushing  waters,  purling 
over  their  gravel  bed,  voiced  untiringly  a  ceaseless 
requiem  for  the  dead. 

Up  on  the  mountain  side,  overlooking  the  ceme- 
tery, the  cottage  sheltered  Jo  in  her  unbearable 
restlessness,  watched  over  jealously  by  Aletta, 
anxious  for  the  success  of  her  plan.  Upon  Jo's  re- 
tirement Into  privacy  for  a  time  the  success  of  that 
plan  depended,  and  since  no  members  of  the  house- 
hold at  The  Outspan  had  set  foot  upon  the  Top 
Farm  since  the  death  of  its  master  this  task  of  keep- 
ing Jo  out  of  their  sight  was  the  easier  of  accom- 

416 


DIVIDED  417 

plishment.  Aletta,  in  turn,  was  maternally  guarded 
by  Xante  Jacoba,  who,  in  seemingly  frank  simplic- 
ity, accepted  and  advertised  the  theory  of  the 
expected  advent  of  an  heir  to  the  dead  master's 
possessions,  and  with  guileless  ingenuousness  pressed 
home  this  truth  whenever  opportunity  offered  upon 
the  suffering  Brandons. 

"  Maar^  see  you,  Mynheer  Brandon,"  she  ex- 
plained in  kindly,  confidential  fashion  to  the  head 
of  the  family  as  he  gloomed  in  a  basket-chair  on 
the  back  verandah  one  languorous  afternoon  some 
three  weeks  after  his  son's  death ;  "  see  you,  in  the 
coming  of  this  babe  —  a  ]onge  my  heart  assures  me 
it  will  be  —  the  hand  of  the  dear  Lord  who  kills 
and  makes  alive,  as  the  Book  says.  George,  most 
sweet  and  gracious  son,  you  have  lost:  Heer! 
Brandon,  but  so  it  is  by  the  will  of  the  Lord;  yet 
see,  his  child  comes  to  fill  his  place  in  the  world, 

to  take  his  share  of  the  love  in  your  hearts,  and " 

she  added  pointedly,  throwing  under  lowered  eye- 
lids a  sly,  keen  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  coffee- 
tray,  "  to  step  into  his  father's  inheritance." 

Brandon  —  although  somewhat  puzzled  by  this 
sudden  announcement,  sprung  upon  them  since  the 
death  of  his  son  —  was  innocent  of  any  suspicion 
of  possible  deception  in  the  matter,  and  merely,  as 
before,  acknowledged  Tante  Jacoba's  assertions  as 
to  the  providential  arrival  of  the  child  by  a  curt  nod 
as  he  puffed  moodily  at  his  pipe.  Since  the  blow 
had  fallen  upon  him  the  man  had  grown  morose. 


4i8  DIVIDED 

speaking  even  less  than  had  been  his  former  wont; 
Xante  Jacoba  detected  in  his  looks  and  bearing  un- 
mistakable sign  of  the  rapid  process  of  decay.  "  It's 
just  as  well  to  have  the  child  acknowledged  while 
the    old    man    is    above    ground,"    she    thought, 

shrewdly,    "  that   will   settle   the   two "     She 

glanced  at  Margery,  of  whose  objections  she  had 
felt  afraid.  "  But  she  is  too  beaten  down  to  fight 
.  .  .  she  has  got  past  caring,"  she  reflected  com- 
placently, watching  Margery  —  whiter-faced  than 
ever  in  her  black  dress  —  as  she  sat  dispensing  the 
afternoon  coffee;  but  from  those  set  lips  came  no 
word  of  dissent. 

"  Thanks,  child,"  said  Tante  Jacoba,  receiving 
from  Babs'  small,  plump  hand  a  third  cup  of  her 
favourite  beverage,  "  and  did  you  put  the  sugar  in, 
my  child?  " 

"Margery  did,"  Babs  answered  shortly;  the 
tragedy  of  George's  death  still  lay  with  so  passion- 
ate an  intensity  of  bitterness  upon  her  warmly- 
affectionate  heart  as  had  left  her  feeling  too  sore 
and  heavy  even  to  play  at  being  naughty.  The  game 
of  tormenting  the  old  Tante,  too,  had  lost  its  zest. 

"  Now  that  the  sugar  has  come  through,  my 
child,"  the  Boer  woman  went  on  in  kindly  tones, 
"  I'll  make  you  some  mooi  komfyt^  soon  as  ever  we 
cut  our  water-melons." 

"  Say  '  thank  you,'  Babs,"  Margery  said,  softly. 

But  Babs  only  humped  up  her  shoulders  as  she 
returned  to  the  coffee-tray.     She  stood  by  Margery's 


DIVIDED  419 

side,  listlessly  dipping  her  rusk  into  the  steaming 
liquid. 

'' Ach!  jar'  sighed  Xante  Jacoba;  "the  child, 
like  the  rest  of  us,  finds  the  good  food  and  drink  — 
now  that  we  have  got  it  —  but  as  muck  and  bitter- 
ness in  the  mouth  I  But  the  coming  of  the  little 
one  will  cheer  her  .  .  .  Ach!  jal "  she  sighed 
"windily  between  the  noisy  gulping-down  of  her 
coffee. 

Babs  raised  her  head  and  pricked  her  ears. 

"  What  little  one  is  coming,  Margery*?  "  she  de- 
manded, loudly;  then,  without  waiting  a  reply, 
pressed  the  question  upon  Woodward.  Xante 
Jacoba  beamed  upon  the  group. 

"  Maar,  child,  it  will  be  a  fine  plaything  for  you; 
a  mooi  popje.     Ach!  yes." 

"  I  am  tired  of  dolls,"  sighed  Babs  discontentedly, 
all  her  interest  vanished  since  the  "  little  one " 
meant  nothing  more  than  an  inanimate  doll.  How 
silly  and  tiresome  the  old  Boer  woman  could  be! 
she  thought  irritably,  turning  her  attention  once 
more  to  soaked  rusk. 

"  Women  are  wonnerlyk  creatures,"  pronounced 
Xante  Jacoba,  setting  down  her  cup  on  the  small 
space  of  couch  left  unoccupied  by  her  vast  bulk 
and  wiping  her  heavy,  protruding  lips  and  sweat- 
damped,  tallow-colored  cheeks  with  the  hem  of  her 
black  cashmere  apron;  ''wonnerlyk!  so  say  I,  who 
am  myself  a  woman.  Xo  have  seen  my  poor  wid- 
owed child  on  that  black  morning  when  the  tid- 


420  DIVIDED 

ings  of  her  loss  came  to  her,  who  would  have  said 
she  will  live  to  bring  the  child  into  the  world*?  But 
Nature  won't  let  the  woman  go  —  not  while  there's 
another  life  depending  upon  hers  that's  got  to  be 
brought  into  existence.  And  why^  Because  Na- 
ture's as  old  as  the  first  man  and  woman  that  set 
human  life  a-going.  She'd  got  to  people  this  big 
world  with  only  Adam  and  Eve  to  start  upon,  and 
so  I  reckon  she  asked  the  Almighty  to  give  her  a 
free  hand  over  the  business.  '  If  I've  got  this  big 
job  to  carry  through  I  must  have  a  free  hand,'  that's 
about  how  she  would  put  it;  and  the  dear  Lord, 
being  so  much  more  understanding-like  than  some 
of  the  poor  foolish  creatures  He  has  made,  gave 
Nature  her  way  in  this  matter;  and  thus,  whenever 
we  see  a  jonge  and  a  meisje  together — "  she  cast 
her  small,  twinkling  eyes  knowingly  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  coffee-tray  —  "  we  can  safely  reckon  that 
there  Mother-Nature  will  be  at  her  old  work  — 
old  as  the  first  day  of  the  Creation  —  old  as  the 
first  chapter  of  the  Book  —  her  work  of  drawing 
male  to  female,  female  to  male,  thus  replenishing 
the  earth  and  continuing  the  races." 

Again  she  sighed  windily,  then  went  on: 
"  Ach!  ja!  —  and  I  said  to  my  girl  this  very  aft- 
ernoon, *  Come,  then,  Aletta,  you  come  down  with 
me  and  see  your  husband's  folk  who  are  your  folk 
as  the  Book  says;'  and  the  poor  thing  answers  me, 
'Not  yet,  Ma;  I'll  not  go  over  the  bridge  till  I 
carry  George's  son  in  my  arms  to  visit  his  o*  pa.' 


DIVIDED  421 

.  •  .  'ioch!  toch!"  added  Tante  Jacoba  with 
a  chuckle  of  mingled  admiration  and  pity,  "  the 
spirit  of  the  woman  over  her  dead  husband's  com- 
ing child! 

"  And  talking  of  those  born  without  the  sense 
of  understanding  the  nature  of  their  fellow-men," 
she  presently  continued  —  switching  the  conversa- 
tion back  to  the  one  absorbing  topic  of  the  hour 
since  she  perceived  sufficient  had  been  said  on  the 
prime  object  of  her  visit,  "  well,  does  it  not  seem 
too  inconceivable  to  us  South  Africans  —  whether 
Dutch  or  English  —  that  such  a  thing  as  this 
should  be  possible!  The  man  and  his  brother- 
officer  die  for  their  fault  —  if  such  it  be  —  of  pos- 
sessing natural  human  feelings!  And  at  sun  up  to- 
morrow! '^ochl  but  that  does  seem  hard!  After 
crossing  the  ocean  and  the  land,  ten  thousand  miles 
so  they  tell  me,  to  fight  for  England!  Aclil  yes! 
but,  indeed,  it  is  hard,  and  incomprehensible  also." 

**  Scandalous !  "  growled  old  Brandon ;  while 
Margery,  not  wishing  Babs  to  be  saddened  by  fur- 
ther reference  to  the  tragedy  about  to  be  enacted 
in  their  immediate  neighborhood,  sent  her  on  a 
message  to  the  kitchen. 

"  My  dear  life,  we  Transvaalers,  thank  the 
Lord,  don't  put  such  over-fine  interpretations  upon 
men's  actions,"  the  Boer  woman  continued  philo- 
sophically; "nor  do  we  need  to  twist  our  tongues 
and  pull  faces  when  we  are  obliged  to  lie;  we  lie 
outright  and  boldly;    the  bigger  the  lie  the  more 


422  DIVIDED 

emphatically  we  speak  it.  Does  the  British  Gen- 
eral come  to  our  commandant  and  say  politely  — 
dear  Lord,  how  politely  do  these  rooineks  speak! 
— '  My  dear  sir,  your  men  have  been  using  our 
passwords,  or  wearing  our  uniform,  or  shooting 
down  our  men  under  cover  of  the  white  flag,'  — 
why,  of  course,  our  commandant  would  at  once 
look  him  hard  in  the  face,  with  eyes  wide  opened, 
and  would  say  —  with,  maybe,  a  thump  of  his  fist 
on  the  table,  '  Impossible !  the  thing  could  not  be ! 
it's  a  lie  trumped  up  by  the  enemy!  I  know  my 
men  —  they  are  simple  people,  but  oprecht;  poor, 
God-fearing  back-veldt  farmers  who  ask  nothing 
more  than  to  be  left  in  peace  in  their  homesteads 
on  the  veldt;  they  never  would  do  such  mean, 
dirty,  treacherous  things!  Almachtig!  Never!' 
and  the  British  General  would  go  away  satisfied." 
Here  Tante  Jacoba  laughed  hugely,  until,  recol- 
lecting she  was  paying  a  visit  to  a  house  of  mourn- 
ing, she  deftly  recovered  her  former  lugubrious  cast 
of  countenance. 

"But,  see  again,  Brandon,  when  it's  the  com- 
mandant who  goes  complaining  to  the  General, 
*  Here's  the  hell  to  pay,'  he  says,  roughly.  *  Your 
men  have  shot  the  Boer  prisoners  in  cold  blood  — 
no  excusing  circumstances  whatever  —  poor,  sim- 
ple, God-fearing  farmers  doing  nothing  more  than 
just  defending  their  homes  and  goods  from  fire  and 
pillage,  and  their  women  from  the  adulterous 
clutches  of  your  verdoemd  godless  troopers!    Un- 


DIVIDED  423 

less  you  hurry  up,  and  get  them  punished  sharp, 
we'll  fight  our  own  way,  with  naught  to  turn  us 
from  war's  ruses  or  hamper  us  from  using  dum-dum 
bullets  or  decoy  white  flags;  or  from  the  throwing 
of  shells  into  hospitals;  or  the  dynamiting  trains; 
or  the  poisoning  the  sources  of  springs  watering 
troops  and  the  people  shut  up  in  the  besieged  towns ! 
You  just  bestir  yourself  and  send  an  explanation.'  " 
Xante  Jacoba  again  threw  herself  back  and  chuckled 
hugely.  "What  answer  comes?  Eh?  Margery, 
you  ask  the  Captain  there;  he'll  tell  you,  for  he 
does  not  serve  in  a  British  regiment;  he'll  tell  us 
how  the  polite  General  words  his  answer,  so  soft- 
like: 'Please,  Mr.  Commandant^  please  don't  do 
all  these  things  (although  we  are  not  at  all  sure 
that  you  are  not  already  doing  them),  for  we  prom- 
ise most  certainly  to  punish  the  men  who  have  come 
to  fight  for  England  —  no  homeborn  sons  of  Great 
Britain,  let  us  assure  you,  but  rough,  unmanage- 
able sort  of  chaps  hailing  from  our  Overseas  Domin- 
ions, whom,  indeed,  we  don't  altogether  care  to  own 
as  blood-brothers.  Still,  it  is  true  they  have  come 
several  thousand  miles  across  land  and  sea  for  the 
purpose  of  helping  England  to  fight  the  Transvaal, 
purely  out  of  a  silly  sort  of  sentimental  feeling  for 
King  and  Mother-country;  therefore,  we  shall  see 
to  it  that  they  fall  by  the  guns  of  Great  Britain  I ' 
^och!  ^ochl  But  can  any  one  doubt  but  that  blind- 
ness has  indeed  been  sent  upon  England  and  upon 
her  people  because  the  dear  Lord  knows  that  her 


424  DIVIDED 

day  must  now  draw  to  its  night  —  her  time  of 
greatness  must  pass  to  its  close  —  her  day  of  power 
must  come  to  its  end*?  "  asked  Xante  Jacoba  sol- 
emnly, preparing  to  lift  her  vast  proportions  from 
off  the  couch.  "  Run,  Babs,  my  child,  and  tell 
them  to  bring  round  the  cart  to  the  door;  I  can  no 
longer  walk  the  hill;  I  must  ride  round  by  the 
wagon  road.  Ach!  yes;  so  the  best  of  us  grow  old; 
and  me  not  hearing  word  yet  of  Oom  Jan  —  not 
knowing  whether  my  man  be  dead  or  alive !  " 

"No  news  yet"?"  asked  Brandon,  and  she 
shrilled  an  ''Ach!  No!" 

Then  noting  that  Margery  had  taken  down  the 
baskets  from  a  peg  on  the  wall,  and  was  answering 
in  reply  to  Babs  —  who  caught  at  one  from  her 
hand  —  that  they  were  going  to  gather  fruit  in  the 
lower-lands,  where  the  latest  peaches  were  now 
ripening:  "That's  right,  girl,"  she  said,  approv- 
ingly. "  Don't  you  wait  for  me  to  climb  into  the 
cart;  that's  a  long  business,  for  I  am  no  longer 
young  and  thin.  You  go,  get  in  your  peaches; 
they'll  just  be  turning  yellow  and  the  proper  ripe- 
ness for  preserve.  And  the  walk  will  freshen  you 
up  —  you're  looking  but  pale  and  peaked  .  .  . 
The  Captain — "  Tante  Jacoba  concluded,  as  she 
offered  a  limp  hand  to  Woodward  in  turn  with  the 
rest,  "  the  Captain  will  doubtless  do  himself  the 
pleasure  to  go  with  you  and  help  gather  the 
peaches."  • 


VIII 

It  appeared  that  it  pleased  Woodward  so  to  do, 
for,  as  the  Boer  woman's  enormous  rotundity  dis- 
appeared from  sight  within  the  tented-frame  of  the 
stout-wheeled  vehicle  in  which  she  invariably  trav- 
eled, he  turned  to  follow  Margery  and  Babs  down 
the  garden. 

Somewhat  awkwardly  —  since  for  the  past  three 
weeks  he  had  kept  aloof  from  her  —  he  now  fell 
into  pace  by  Margery's  side,  taking  the  basket  from 
her  hand.  Babs,  flourishing  the  other,  ran  races 
with  the  terriers,  feeling  happier  since  she  saw  her 
two  elders  once  more  apparently  resuming  that 
former  friendliness  of  intercourse,  the  cessation  of 
which  during  the  dark  days  of  the  past  weeks  had 
preyed  upon  the  child's  mind  and  added  to  her  sor- 
row. Perhaps  Margery  would  be  less  sad  and  quiet 
now,  she  confided  hopefully  to  the  terriers. 

Woodward's  glance  at  his  companion  as  he 
moved  silently  by  her  side  went  unrewarded,  for 
the  sun-bonnet  hid  the  set  face  and  veiled  eyes.  He 
had,  however,  no  need  to  look  upon  that  face  to 
remind  himself  of  the  changed  woman  who,  during 
the  past  days,  had  moved  about  the  post-house  with 
the  old,  masked  face,  the  old,  silent  ways,  intensi- 

425 


426  DIVIDED 

fied  and  heightened  a  thousandfold.  Margery  — 
with  her  speechless  sorrow  and  hopeless  despair 
and  unreasoning  grief  pressed  closely  to  her  bleed- 
ing heart  —  moved  through  these  first  days  of  her 
loss  as  a  changed  being  —  her  form  bent  and  tense, 
her  voice  toneless  and  low,  her  face  white  and 
aged,  her  eyes  veiled  and  haunted,  her  sorrow  un- 
named, unshared.  From  her  lips  no  word  of  an- 
guish, of  rebellion  or  complaint  had  been  heard  to 
fall;  but  to  Woodward's  accusing,  remorseful  con- 
science her  very  silence,  her  changed  looks,  empha- 
sized the  bitterness  of  that  silent  grief. 

She  had  lost  the  old  power  of  intensity  of  feel- 
ing, she  told  herself,  as  she  moved  by  the  side  of 
the  man  whose  love  had  formerly  restored  to  her 
the  zest  of  life,  the  realization  of  the  force  of  love. 
But  now  she  had  finally  lost  all  capacity  for  emo- 
tion; something  had  died  within  her  that  never 
again  would  stir  to  life.  Never  again  could  the 
power  of  the  love  of  this  man  —  great  as  she  still 
felt  that  power  to  be  —  call  from  its  final  resting- 
place  her  old  self.  "This  is  Death  in  life,"  she 
reflected  drearily,  "  which  has  robbed  me  —  merci- 
fully it  may  be  —  (sf  grace  and  softness  and  the 
power  to  feel  —  of  the  power  to  love  and  to  re- 
ceive love;  neither  is  there  left  me  the  will  to 
desire." 

The  sorrow  —  draped  and  wrapped  about  her 
heart  —  which  held  her  dead  love  and  her  dead 
hope,  held  within  its  dark  folds  at  least  one  com- 


DIVIDED  427 

pensation,  which  dimly  she  was  beginning  to  see  — 
that  no  later  sorrow  could  affect  her  much.  It  had 
brought  to  her,  too,  some  sort  of  realization  of  the 
meaning  of  the  mystery  of  suffering,  the  clue  to  the 
wretched  riddle  of  life.  She  had  looked  life  stead- 
ily in  the  face,  and,  in  return,  found  nothing  for  it 
but  acceptance,  renunciation,  endurance  for  the 
world  of  suffering  humanity.  "  We  have  nothing 
here  below  in  full  measure  but  misfortune,"  she  had 
schooled  herself  to  understand  and  accept. 

Woodward's  voice  came  strained  and  awkward: 

"You  know,  I  am  leaving  in  the  morning 
.  .  .  I  sent  asking  to  be  relieved  of  further  du- 
ties here,  and  my  successor  comes  to  take  over 
charge  some  time  this  evening." 

She  desired  to  maintain  an  outwardly  unbroken 
friendliness  with  him  to  the  end.  Though  she  had 
seen  but  little  of  him  during  the  past  weeks, 
though  they  had  had  no  private  speech  together, 
Margery  had  not  been  unconscious  of  his  unobtru- 
sive daily  acts  of  thoughtfulness  on  her  behalf. 
Without  his  practical  help  and  courage  and  re- 
sourcefulness, how  should  she  and  her  stricken 
father  —  with  Thane  in  wild  delirium  to  add  to  the 
horrors  of  the  situation  —  have  come  through  those 
first  terrible  hours  of  their  loss. 

She  spoke  in  low,  expressionless  tones. 

"You  leave  early?  —  but  you  must  not  go  off 
without  breakfast  ...  I  will  see  to  it  that 
something  is  got  ready." 


428  DIVIDED 

"  No,"  he  said,  shortly;  "  don't  trouble,  I'm  off 
at  daybreak." 

A  feeling  akin  to  desolation  swept  for  a  moment 
across  her  deadness  of  heart,  across  her  indifference 
to  all  things.  She  endeavoured  to  bring  home  to  her- 
self the  reality  that  a  good  friend  was  going  for 
ever  out  of  her  life.  It  meant  a  fresh  renunciation, 
a  fresh  resignation;  life's  dues  to  be  paid  to  the 
uttermost  farthing  —  that  was  all. 

"  I  can't  go,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden^  sense  of 
anger  directed  against  that  masked  face  and  draped 
soul  and  hidden  personality  which,  from  the  first 
day  of  his  acquaintanceship  with  this  incomprehen- 
sible woman,  had  baulked  and  beckoned  and  baffled 
him  —  "I  can't  go  out  of  your  life  with  this  hor- 
rible silence  hanging  between  us  I  Margery,  let  me 
hear  your  voice  speaking  in  its  old  tones!  .  .  . 
Reproach  me,  blame  me,  but  break  the  3ilence  divid- 
ing us ! " 

She  was  as  a  sleep-walker  moving  without  effort 
of  comprehension  —  her  face  expressionless,  her 
eyes  dull,  her  voice  toneless,  as  she  replied,  dully: 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  said." 

He  was  beating  his  head  against  a  stone  wall, 
battering  his  heart  against  a  nonentity,  he  told  him- 
self fiercely,  as  a  flame  of  hot  anger  roused  to  quick 
passion  his  late  subdued  pulses.  Apart  from  this 
woman  life  held  no  desire  for  him;  apart  from  her 
the  old  stirring  magic  of  life  would  henceforth  es- 
cape his  perception;    the  realm  of  that  imagined 


DIVIDED  429 

world,  of  finer,  rarer  essences  underlying  the  appar- 
ent, would  remain  for  ever  closed  to  him.  Mate- 
less  and  disillusioned,  he  must  return  to  the  life 
from  which  he  had  been  drawn  by  the  war  to  scan 
for  a  brief  moment  of  time  one  page  of  the  Book 
of  Realization,  opened  only  to  those  who  glimpse 
the  heights  and  depths  of  human  love,  of  human 
passion. 

"  There  is  something  you  owe  it  to  me  to  say," 
he  said,  speaking  with  a  low,  quick  intensity  of  tone. 
"  Won't  you  say  it?  Will  you  let  it  weigh  upon  us 
both  when  we  are  apart  that  you  left  it  unsaid*?  " 

She  understood  that  he  was  asking  of  her  the 
same  question  he  had  asked  on  that  last  afternoon 
they  had  spent  together.  The  remembrance  of 
those  hours  —  unbearable  as  contrasted  with  this 
present  hour  —  stirred  deep  within  the  conscious- 
ness, where  she  agonized  in  solitude,  a  spasm  of 
bitter  emotion;  but  she  answered  in  the  same 
gravely  reserved  fashion: 

"  I  owe  you  no  explanation." 

Her  resolve  was  firm ;  even  to  hold  this  man  — 
whom  in  her  dumb  pain  she  scarcely  knew  or  cared 
whether  she  wished  to  hold  —  she  would  not  admit 
the  tragedy  of  the  past,  nor  barter,  for  what  now 
appeared  but  a  shadowed  illusion  of  happiness, 
Babs'  real  interests.  Her  resolve  continued  firm  as 
before;  but  her  attitude  of  seemingly  wilful  ob- 
stinacy, of  determined  duplicity  and  unrepentant 
unkindness,  maddened  Woodward,  hurting  his  very 
soul. 


430  DIVIDED 

"  You  would  let  me  go  —  deceived  —  unpitied? 
Our  love  wasn't  great  enough  —  for  then  you  never 
could  have  acted  so  heartlessly  I  "  he  said,  harshly; 
and  her  voice,  tired  and  listless,  came  to  his  ear: 

"  I  don't  blame  you  ...  it  was  all  a  mis- 
take." 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  bitterly,  "  it  was  a  mistake  — 
my  putting  that  question  to  you.  .  .  .  How  I 
have  blamed  myself  for  it  —  how  I  have  suffered 
bitterly  for  it,  you  never  can  know!  ...  If 
only  "  —  he  added  in  slow,  troubled  tones  —  "  if 
only  I  had  foreseen  the  blow  coming  to  you  that 
very  night " 

She  put  out  her  hand  as  she  interrupted  sharply: 

"  Don't  speak  of  that." 

There  was  that  in  her  voice  which  checked  him. 

"  Come  on,  you  two  slow-coaches,"  cried  Babs, 
who  on  tiptoe,  with  a  putting  forth  of  all  her  child- 
ish strength,  was  shaking  a  heavily-laden  peach- 
bough,  bringing  down  showers  of  the  gleaming 
yellow  fruit. 

Margery,  to  avoid  further  questioning  or  urging 
—  which,  she  felt,  could  but  prolong  their  mutual 
suffering  —  made  a  decisive  movement  to  join  the 
child;  but  Woodward  laid  a  detaining  hand  on  her 
arm,  saying  impetuously:  "I  can't  give  you  up  — 
keep  your  past  —  whatever  it  may  hold  for  you  is 
as  nothing  to  me  so  that  you  are  at  my  side ! " 

She  shook  off  his  hand  with  a  low: 

"We  agreed  to  part    ,    ,    •    it  is  better  SO4 


DIVIDED  431 

.  .  ,  I  shall  never  again  love  .  .  .  the 
power  has  gone  out  of  me." 

"  No,  no  I  It  is  night  with  you  now,  Margery, 
but  the  dawn  must  come  .  .  .  only  believe 
that  my  love  is  strong  enough  to  help  you  through 
the  darkness  and  the  dawn  ...  to  ask  noth- 
ing ...  to  forgive  anything  —  everything, 
so  long  as  I  have  you,  dear." 

His  voice  trembled  with  rough  emotion  as  he 
leaned  towards  her,  looking  into  that  cold,  set  face 
with  the  hard  lines  about  the  mouth  and  the  dazed 
look  in  the  dry  eyes.  Again  she  appeared  to  him  as 
one  of  that  disfranchised  multitude  of  women 
whose  ears  are  for  ever  closed  to  the  hearing  of  the 
Song  of  Songs ;  whose  lives  are  doomed  to  be  passed 
in  Sorrow's  temple. 

As  she  stood  before  him,  a  vague  echo  of  that 
nameless  haunting  music  —  that  new,  sweet  tune 
beating  across  the  greyness  of  life  —  recurred  to 
her  deadened  senses,  arousing  within  her  a  concep)- 
tion  of  all  she  was  losing.  She  suffered  intensely, 
yet  her  pride  and  determination  would  not  allow 
her  to  confess  her  past ;  and  to  what  end,  therefore, 
she  asked  herself,  would  be  her  acceptance  of  the 
love  Woodward  now  offered  her  —  a  generous 
love,  asking  nothing,  forgiving  everything,  though 
he  promised  it  would  be  —  since  without  mutual 
understanding  and  mutual  confidence  what  could 
follow  upon  their  union  but  further  misunderstand- 
ings, deeper  suffering,  the  final  irrevocable  break? 


432  DIVIDED 

It  was  the  clear  revelation  of  this  truth,  the  abiding 
assurance  that  without  fullest  explanation  of  that 
past  —  which  she  resolved  should  remain  undis- 
closed —  the  acceptance  of  his  generous  offer,  the 
giving  of  herself  to  him  could  but  end  in  disaster 
and  renewed,  heightened  suffering,  that  enabled 
Margery  to  find  the  strength  and  courage  to  put 
from  her  the  temptation  to  yield  to  his  passionate 
prayer  to  her  to  seek  solace  and  consolation  in  their 
mutual  love  —  though  this  love  she  felt  to  be  as 
warm  and  true  and  ardent  as  when  they  had  lin- 
gered together  in  the  hour  of  its  fulness  upon  the 
mountain-top.  It  was  the  realization  of  this  hard 
truth  that  gave  her  the  strength  and  the  nerve  to 
conceal  her  real  feelings,  and  to  answer  his  en- 
treaty with  a  repetition  of  her  former  words: 

"  We  have  said  our  farewells     ...     let  us 
part  in  friendship." 

"  But  I  love  you,"  he  interrupted  hotly,  *'  you  -^ 
yourself " 

"  It  is  too  late,"  her  voice  was  sad  and  toneless^ 
"  there  is  nothing  to  love  about  me  now  .  .  . 
I  am  hard,  Phil  —  I  am  a  wreck  .  .  .  sorrow 
has  taken  away  my  freshness  and  softness  .  . 
tears  have  thinned  my  cheeks  and  washed  away  my 
bloom  .  .  .  despair  has  robbed  me  of  womanly 
graciousness  and  sympathy,  of  the  power  to  love 
and  to  awake  love  ...  I  am  withered  .  .  . 
I  am  as  a  dead  woman  .  .  .  believe  me,  dear 
friend,  there  is  nothing  to  love  about  me  now." 


DIVIDED  433 

"  Look  at  me !  look  me  in  the  face  and  tell  me 
that  I"  he  cried,  masterfully.  "Margery,  life  has 
been  hard,  but  it  will  at  least  spare  you  from  ever 
knowing  that  worst,  hard  fate  —  the  fate  of  the 
unloved;  for  you  have  crept  into  my  heart  of 
hearts,  dearest,  and  I  could  not  if  I  would  dislodge 
you  from  your  stronghold  there." 

She  made  no  answer,  only  held  him  fixed  by  a 
momentary  gaze.  Sorrow  for  him  stirred  at  the 
numb  consciousness  within  her  heart;  but  her  re- 
solve held  firm,  her  will  remained  obdurate,  even 
as  he  spoke  again  with  quick  intensity. 

"  Don't  you  understand?  You  will  come  to  me 
as  you  promised!  I  ask  nothing  —  I  care  nothing 
—  for  what  you  do  not  choose  to  tell  me,  Margery ! 
Believe  me,  dearest,  I  am  bitterly  sorry  for  ever 
having  questioned  you  .  .  .  your  past  is  your 
own  .  .  .  give  me  only  the  present  and  the 
future;  you  will,  Margery,  for,  as  you  yourself 
said,  love  like  ours  can  never  die!  Come  to  me, 
then,  dearest!  Come,  that  we  may  spend  life  to- 
gether —  that  life  may  hold  for  us  the  fulfilment 
of  our  love!    You  will,  my  darling?" 

Across  the  deep-set,  greenish-grey,  suffering  eyes 
there  passed  a  sheen  as  of  inward,  hidden  tears. 
She  did  not  answer  at  once,  but  turned  and  moved 
noiselessly  towards  the  chattering,  busy  Babs. 
Then  slowly,  tonelessly,  in  dull  finality,  came  the 
reply : 

"Our  love  is  dead." 


IX 


The  night  was  close  and  hot,  and  sitting  on  the 
side  of  the  bed  wherein  Babs  lay  sleeping,  Margery 
took  count  of  the  passing  of  the  hours  by  the  chim- 
ing of  the  old-fashioned  clock  fixed  against  the 
wall  above  the  mantel-shelf  in  the  dining-room. 

Midnight  had  brought  the  brazen  clang  of  the 
dozen  sonorous  strokes,  sounding  startlingly  loud 
through  the  tense  silence  that  held  within  its  hush 
the  precincts  of  the  post-house;  yet  Margery,  save 
that  she  had  loosened  from  its  coils  the  dark  hair 
which  fell  heavily  over  her  bent  shoulders  and 
arms,  was  still  in  her  ordinary  dress,  and  the  hands 
lying  loosely  one  in  the  other  upon  the  black  skirts 
gleamed  white  through  the  masses  of  hair  falling 
over  them,  stirring  gently  as  though  alive  and  in 
sympathy  with  the  restless,  impatient  sigh  and 
movement  that  occasionally  broke  from  her.  Mid- 
night had  gone  by  —  to  that  fact  she  was  acutely 
alive,  since  at  daybreak  Woodward  had  said  his 
journey  was  to  begin,  and  to  wait  up  in  order  to 
catch  the  last  faint  sounds  of  his  retreating  steps 
had  been  her  intention. 

But  now  a  terrible  restlessness  stole  over  her,  in- 
creasing in  strength  as  the  minutes  passed  by,  until 

434 


DIVIDED  435 

she  found  herself  viewing  with  a  sense  of  horror 
the  possibility  of  carrying  out  her  former  intention. 
She  must  go  somewhere  —  anywhere  —  she  told 
herself,  so  that  those  sounds  —  which  to  her  would 
represent  the  lowering  of  the  coffin  of  their  love 
into  its  final  resting-place  —  should  not  reach  her 
ears.  No  longer  had  she  the  strength  or  courage  left 
for  so  dread  an  ordeal.  She  must  spare  herself  this 
last  bitter  pang,  or  surely  reason  and  sanity  would 
pass  from  her  .  .  .  the  human  brain  could 
bear  but  so  much  and  no  more  .  .  .  then 
came  the  limit. 

She  looked  through  the  imshuttered  window  into 
the  still,  languorous  night.  A  strip  of  moonshine 
fell  across  the  dark  of  the  room;  the  moon,  she 
knew,  was  waning,  and  the  night  would  grow  darker 
still  before  the  grey  light  of  earliest  dawn. 

Suddenly,  as  though  resolved  in  her  mind,  Mar- 
gery rose  and  moved  to  the  door,  through  which  she 
passed,  closing  it  noiselessly  behind  her.  A  few 
seconds  later  she  stood  by  her  brother's  grave.  Some 
indefinable  instinct  had  brought  her  to  that  spot. 

She  turned  to  George,  as  in  the  past,  for  help  in 
her  dark,  restless  mood  of  fresh,  unbearable  suffer- 
ing. Only  thus  —  within  reach  of  all  that  was  left 
of  him  —  could  she  find  the  needed  strength  to  en- 
dure with  quiet  courage  this  final,  bitter  renuncia- 
tion. 

She  bent  over  the  dark  mound  of  earth;  the 
sickly-sweet  perfume  of  the   fading  clematis  and 


436  DIVIDED 

roses  heaped  on  the  grave  was  wafted  insistently  on 
the  warm  night-air.  "Can  you  hear  me?"  she 
whispered,  faintly.     "  I  am  so  lonely  —  so  lonely 

—  George.  I  have  come  to  you  for  companionship, 
for  comfort  in  my  awful  loneliness  ...  we 
always  were  good  pals     .     .     .     weren't  we"? " 

"  I  am  going  mad  for  want  of  human  sympathy," 
she  wept,  "  and  his  love  has  to  go  with  the  rest 
.  .  .  with  all  life  held  for  me  .  .  .  it  is 
my  life  that  is  passing  with  yours  .  .  .  and 
now  with  his  .  .  .  he  is  going  out  of  my  life 
with  the  dawn     .     .     ." 

The  shadows  of  the  tall,  quivering  poplars  and 
gracefully-swaying  syringas  —  from  whose  leafy 
branches  sounded  no  longer  twitter  or  pipe  of  bird 

—  fell  black  and  clearly-defined  across  the  grave, 
save  where  a  filtering  of  moonshine  silvered  the 
white  roses  scattered  upon  its  heaped  surface.  Mar- 
gery, sitting  against  the  side  of  that  raised  mound 

—  between  the  ridges  of  earth  that  held  both  moth- 
er and  brother  —  felt  less  forlorn,  more  able  to 
dwell  composedly  upon  the  approaching  departure 
of  the  man  she  loved,  than  when  out  of  sight  and 
touch  of  this  strip  of  earth  holding  within  its  restful 
embrace  those  dearest  to  her.  Her  brother  — 
bound  to  her  by  that  passionate,  unreasoning  devo- 
tion of  her  earliest  life  —  still  lived  in  the  sacred, 
hidden  shrine  within  her  deepest  and  most  enduring 
consciousness.  Never,  in  that  abiding-place  set 
apart  to  him,  could  his  place  be  taken  by  another, 


DIVIDED  437 

even  though  the  future  years  should  bring  in  their 
inevitable  train  those  new  interests  and  new  rela- 
tionships which  the  iron  hand  of  Time  forces  upon 
us  all. 

But  Woodward,  too,  had  his  own  special  share  of 
her  heart  and  strong,  passionate  aifection,  deadened 
though  that  passion  was  for  the  moment  by  the 
blow  of  her  brother's  death.  It  would,  she  knew, 
stir  again  when  time  had  worked  its  will  upon  her, 
and  in  that  hour  she  would  feel  the  extent  of  her 
loss.  He  had  come  into  her  life  —  a  reserved,  ma- 
tured man  —  and  by  the  influences  which  draw  to- 
gether the  man  to  the  woman  they  had  found  in 
each  other  the  desired  mateship  —  the  promise  of 
a  perfect  physical,  intellectual  and  spiritual  union. 
She  had  inspired  within  him  a  true  conception  of 
the  powers  within  his  own  being  —  the  powers  of 
sacrifice,  devotion,  passion,  tenderness,  which  in 
man  are  called  forth  by  woman.  He  had  awakened 
within  her  the  need  for  the  mate  who  could  satisfy 
her  widely-sympathetic  nature,  her  big-heartedness, 
her  intensity  of  feeling;  who  alone  could  complete 
and  round  her  life,  blighted  on  the  threshold  of 
womanhood  by  a  tragic  fate.  She  recalled  that 
time  of  stress  and  terror  long  buried  out  of  sight. 
Ruthlessly  she  dug  it  up,  dragging  it  forth  from  its 
swaddling-bands  in  the  musty  tomb,  long  closed  to 
the  light  of  her  searching  eyes.  This,  it  was,  that 
now  raised  the  irrevocable  barrier  between  Wood- 
ward and  herself.     Did  the  consequences  of  one's 


438  DIVIDED 

past  ever  dog  one's  steps  through  life?  she  asked 
herself,  angrily.  How  the  world  had  reeled  and 
life  had  gone  black  before  her  eyes  on  the  day  when 
she  had  learned  the  ghastly  truth  that  the  man  — 
whom  in  the  immaturity  of  girlhood  she  had  in  wil- 
ful, headstrong  fashion  elected  to  marry  without 
asking  sanction  of  parents  or  relatives  —  had  com- 
mitted a  crime  against  her !  Even  now,  in  the  mar- 
vellous stillness  and  dark  of  the  African  night  in  the 
hour  awaiting  the  dawn,  she  could  see  the  tigerish 
glare  in  the  eyes  of  the  woman  who  claimed  him  as 
husband  on  the  deck  of  the  outgoing  passenger 
steamer  .  .  .  she  could  see  the  startled,  fright- 
ened look  in  the  blue  eyes  of  the  man  .  .  . 
could  hear  her  own  voice  asking  frantically,  as  she 
clung  to  his  arm:  "It's  a  lie  .  .  .  a  lie? 
.  .  .  say  it's  a  lie!  .  .  ."  She  could  recall  her 
terror  and  fear  —  the  wave  of  madness  that  swept 
over  her  brain  —  when  she  awoke  from  the  long 
stupor  in  which  the  shock  had  thrown  her  and  felt 
the  rushing  of  the  green  water  of  Table  Bay  Docks 
beneath  the  port-hole  of  the  cabin  taken  for  herself 
and  for  him,  and  heard  the  swish  of  the  keel  of  the 
ocean  liner  which  was  carrying  her  alone  on  the 
start  of  that  homeward  journey  they  were  to  have 
taken  together  —  an  unmarried  girl  .  .  .  with 
the  life-to-be  already  stirring  within  her  vigorous, 
youthful  frame.     .     .     . 

Then  had  followed  those  dreary,  awful  days  of 
waiting  —  uncomforted  and  alone:   days  when  she 


DIVIDED  439 

had  cursed  the  light  of  the  sun,  and  the  warm  feel 
of  mother-earth,  and  the  perfume  of  the  familiar 
grasses  and  flowering  scrub,  and  the  song  of  birds, 
and  the  voices  of  her  fellows;  nights  when  she 
had  crouched  in  the  dark,  striving  to  hide  herself 
from  herself,  from  her  inmost  consciousness,  and 
had  felt  frenzy  beckoning  her  to  self-destruction. 
.  .  .  She  stirred,  and  laid  her  hand  palm- 
downward  upon  the  mould  of  the  soft  red  earth 
covering  the  quiet  grave.  Yes,  it  had  been  George 
who  had  come  at  the  end  of  those  days,  sent  by  his 
parents,  to  meet  her  at  their  nearest  sea-port  town. 
It  was  on  George's  faithful  breast,  within  his  com- 
forting clasp,  that  she  had  bent  her  aching  head, 
while  burning  tears  —  forced  from  the  depths  of  the 
wilful  heart  now  brought  low  in  the  dust  and  ashes 
of  repentance  —  had  choked  her  utterance  of  the 
sordid  tale  of  folly  and  guile  which  had  ended  in 
the  humiliating  situation  in  which  she  now  found 
herself.  It  was  George's  voice  —  gentle  and  com- 
forting and  inexpressibly  dear  —  which  had  soothed 
her  agony  of  mind,  and  it  was  his  good  judg- 
ment and  resourcefulness  in  summoning  the  mother 
to  the  daughter's  aid  that  had  shielded  from  the 
world's  eager,  loud-mouthed  condemnation  her 
pitiful  position.  Should  she  ever  forget  all  he  had 
been  to  her  then  and  since*?  She  touched  the  grave 
reassuringly. 

George  had  helped  her  to  preserve  her  secret, 
and  she  would  hold  it  to  the  end.    The  counsel 


440  DIVIDED 

she  would  have  asked  of  him  in  regard  to  Wood- 
ward could  never  now  find  voice.  The  counsel  he 
would  have  given  her  at  this  crisis  in  her  life  lay 
buried  with  him  in  the  grave.  She  looked  down, 
whispering:  "  Hold  me  from  speaking  till  he  shall 
have  gone  out  of  my  life." 

Over  in  the  east,  the  last  flicker  of  the  dropping 
moon  threw  a  thin,  magic  radiance  athwart  the  grey 
of  the  oncoming  dawn.  Up  on  the  mountain-side 
the  silence  was  intense.  Hushed  in  the  sleep  of 
night,  mother-earth,  the  plain  and  the  hills,  with 
their  crown  of  herbage,  stretched  motionless  as 
though  under  the  spell  of  death.  Margery  got  to 
her  feet,  and  drew  over  her  dark  hair  the  long  black 
scarf  that  had  slipped  from  her  shoulders;  then 
stood,  with  unseeing  eyes  fixed  on  the  dark  moun- 
tain-peak overshadowing  The  Outspan.  There  it 
was  she  had  parted  from  George  and  tasted  of  the 
depth  of  suffering!  There  it  was  that  she  had  met 
with  Woodward  and  had  tasted  of  the  height  of 
joy!  From  that  mountain- top  her  brother  had  rid- 
den to  the  fate  awaiting  him.  His  life  had  been 
sacrificed  on  the  altar  of  patriotism.  The  very  word 
brought  to  her  recollection  the  personality  of  that 
brother-soldier,  whose  life  equally  was  to  fall  a 
sacrifice  to  his  patriotism.  He  had  understood 
George's  point  of  view  as  one  brave  man  under- 
stands another's  ...  he  had  turned  aside  to 
help  Thane  in  that  hour  of  deepest  need  .  .  . 
and  the  dawn  was  coming,  and  with  the  rising  of 
the  sun  his  day  of  life  must  end. 


DIVIDED  441 

"  I'll  climb  the  hill  and  take  a  last  farewell  of 
him,  instead,"  Margery  suddenly  decided.  "  We 
owe  it  to  him,  for  he  was  kind  to  us,"  and  with  a 
last  tender  look  at  the  flower-decked  grave  she 
turned  and  moved  through  the  dim  light.  Reach- 
ing the  foot-bridge,  she  crossed  it,  so  absorbed  by 
the  thought  that  she  was  turning  her  back  upon  her 
sole  remaining  chance  of  catching  a  last  sight  of  the 
man  whose  love  she  was  renouncing  that  she  failed 
to  notice  the  dark  shadow  reaching  from  out  the 
patch  of  tall  bulrushes  fringing  the  bank  of  the 
stream.  Silently  Woodward  watched  her  bent 
form,  as  slowly  she  climbed  the  rise,  ere  he  attempt- 
ed to  move  upward  himself,  following  cautiously 
and  at  a  discreet  distance.  "I  cannot  allow  her  to 
go  alone  ...  it  would  not  be  right,"  he  told 
himself  peremptorily,  pushing  aside  the  thought  of 
his  early  start. 

Now  she  was  passing  within  hall  of  the  Top  Farm 
homestead,  and  her  voice  came  floating  down 
through  the  obscurity  of  night  to  his  ears: 

"Jo!     .     .     .     is  it  you,  Jo?" 

"  Oh,  Margery,  misery  will  not  let  me  lie  in  my 
bed  in  peace." 

"  But,  Jo,  this  Is  wrong  .  .  .  to  go  wan- 
dering about  all  night  will  surely  harm  you." 

He  caught  Johanna's  bitter  laugh.  "  Isn't  It 
Aletta  who  has  got  to  be  careful  of  her  health?" 
she  asked  ironically,  then  broke  into  a  wail: 

"  Margery !  Margery !   Oh,  when  will  Thane  see 


442  DIVIDED 

me?  Is  he  made  of  iron?  Has  he  a  heart  at  all*? " 
she  questioned  fiercely,  and  Margery's  reply  came, 
not  untenderly: 

"  You  must  be  patient,  Jo." 

"  Patient !  "  sounded  the  sharp  echo  of  the  words. 
"  How  long  —  O  Lord,  how  long*?  " 

"  Thane  isn't  responsible  for  his  actions  just  now, 
dear;  in  time  the  thought  of  you,  and  the  sense 
of  what  he  owes  you,  will,  no  doubt,  come  back  to 
him.    But,  as  you  know,  he  is  not  at  home  now." 

"  But  you  know  where  he  is"?  —  you  know  how  he 
is? "  Jo  asked  sharply,  and  Margery's  voice  re- 
turned a  brief  negative. 

"It  is  true,  then,  as  they  told  me,  that  when  he 
came  to  his  senses  and  was  able  to  leave  his  bed  he 
went  off  on  Buller,  no  one  knows  where?"  Jo  de- 
manded again,  in  quick  eagerness. 

"  It  is  true,  Jo.  I  begged  of  him  to  wait  and 
get  stronger  —  he  was  so  fearfully  weak  —  weak  as 
a  baby  after  those  awful  days  of  delirium."  Mar- 
gery's voice  slid  into  silence  and  Jo  cried  out: 

"  You  did  not  let  him  go  alone?  '* 

"No,"  the  other  replied,  after  a  pause.  "No; 
we  sent  a  boy  on  horseback  to  follow  him  and  keep 
him  in  sight  as  far  as  possible.  We've  heard  since 
they  went  across  the  veldt,  heading  Swaziland 
way  .  .  .  God  knows  when  he  will  return  ..." 

"  —  if  ever  I  "  cried  the  other.  "  And  even  if 
he  lives  and  comes  out  of  his  madness,  will  he  then 
remember  and  turn  to  poor  Jo?  " 


DIVIDED  443 

"  Give  him  time,  Jo  ...  he  is  mad  with 
grief." 

"  Oh,  this  cursed,  cruel  war!  It  has  raised  the  bar 
for  years  and  years  to  come  between  your  people 
and  mine  I  Forgive  me,  Margery  ...  I  know 
what  it  has  cost  you  .  .  .  but  you  never  speak 
.  .  .  you  are  so  silent  .  .  .  like  a  ghost 
you  move  on  your  ways,  the  while  your  big  heart  is 
breaking  with  grief  .  .  .  yet  you  say  nothing 
.     .     .     only  listen  to  my  babble  of  woe." 

"Thank  God  that  you  are  able  to  babble;  while 
we  have  left  us  a  grain  of  hope  we  can  babble ;  but, 
Jo,  death  is  the  one  irreparable  misfortune  I  In  all 
other  sorrows  we  can  babble  and  find  ease  .  .  . 
but  death  offers  no  such  consolation  ...  it 
takes  our  loved  ones  and  they  are  gone  .  .  . 
the  rest  is  silence." 

Now  they  had  reached  the  opening  in  the  bush- 
path,  and  emerged  on  the  clearing  leading  across 
the  level  table-land  of  the  mountain  top  with  its 
irregular-shaped  boulders,  piled  rock  upon  rock,  in- 
tersecting the  flat,  scrub-covered  surface.  At  the 
foot  of  the  highest  of  these  strange  cairns  of  rock 
fragments  —  heaped  together,  doubtless,  by  some 
huge  convulsion  of  primeval  ages  —  the  girls 
paused. 

"  I  will  rest  here,"  sighed  Jo,  wriggling  into  a 
soft  patch  of  waving  grasses  sheltered  by  a  project- 
ing slab  of  rock;  "you  get  to  the  top,  since  you 
want  to  watch," 


444  DIVIDED 

"  Our  widest  view  is  from  the  top  of  this  heap," 
replied  Margery,  as  she  took  off  her  long  wrap  and 
spread  it  over  the  girl's  shoulders,  tucking  it  in  be- 
fore and  behind;    then  added: 

"  Try  and  sleep,  Jo,  if  only  for  ten  minutes ;  it 
will  do  you  good." 

"  Sleep  I  Ach !  those  two  will  soundly  enough, 
presently!  Can't  I  feel  for  them  because  I'm  a  Boer 
girl?  Yes,  truly,  but  the  hot  blood  in  my  veins 
makes  me  comprehend  and  pity." 

Margery  turned  and  scrambled  to  the  height. 

Standing  on  the  topmost  boulder  —  her  thin 
skirts  outlining  her  tall  slenderness,  her  loosened 
hair  floating  below  her  waist,  the  darkness  of  her 
deep-set  eyes  sharply  contrasted  by  the  pallor  of  her 
stern-browed,  suffering  face  —  she  appeared  to 
Woodward  as  the  Spirit  of  Justice  sprung  forth 
upon  the  dawn  of  the  newly-created  day  to  voice 
a  silent  protest  against  the  world  of  men.  To  Mar- 
gery herself,  as  her  eyes  swept  around  the  points  of 
the  compass  —  widened  now  by  reason  of  the  on- 
coming of  the  dawn  —  the  spectacle  of  Woodward 
standing  in  the  opening  of  the  bush-path  appeared 
but  as  an  illusion  called  up  from  the  recesses  of  her 
overwrought  brain.  She  looked  again,  and  more 
intently,  at  the  small  figure  by  his  side,  wrapped 
in  the  cumbersome  woollen  shawl  which  covered 
head  and  face.  Only  the  wide,  jewel-bright  eyes 
•—penetrating  and  alluring  as  her  own  —  stared 
pathetically  from  the  dark  wrapper  so  closely  en- 
folding the  childish  face. 


DIVIDED  445 

Margery  looked  frowningly  down  upon  the  two; 
the  two  looked  inquiringly  —  imploringly  —  up  at 
her;  then,  in  response  to  the  slight  nod  of  assent, 
moved  eagerly  forward  and  upward. 

"  Don't  be  angry,  Margery,"  Babs  pleaded, 
breathlessly,  as,  helped  by  Woodward,  she  scram- 
bled from  rock  to  rock,  finally  throwing  herself 
upon  that  motionless  figure.  "  I  woke  and  missed 
you;  then  I  got  so  frightened  and  couldn't  sleep  a 
wink  .  .  .  then  I  slipped  on  my  overall  and 
this  big  shawl  —  it's  ever  so  warm,  Margey  dear  — 
and  when  I  ran  down  the  garden  looking  for  you, 
I  saw  Phil  on  the  bridge." 

Margery  turned  grave  eyes  on  Woodward,  but 
Babs  interposed  hastily: 

"  Oh,  he  didn't  see  me^  or,  of  course,  he'd  have 
sent  me  back  to  bed;  I  knew  that  much,"  Babs 
added  with  a  triumphant  air,  "  so  I  crept  softly 
after  him  until  we  were  more  than  half-way  up  the 
bush-path;  then  I  was  so  tired  I  called  out  to  him, 
and  he  carried  me  to  the  top.  And,  oh,  I  am  tired 
.  .  ."  she  added,  sitting  flat  upon  the  boulder 
and  stretching  to  their  full  length  her  slender 
brown  legs. 

"  But,  Babs,  you  must  never  again  follow  me  in 
this  naughty  fashion.  How  did  you  know  I  was 
up  here'?    I  might  have  been  anywhere  else." 

"  Well,"  Babs  answered,  wisely,  "  I  knew  you 
must  be  up  here,  or  why  should  Phil  have  been 
coming  all  this  long  way  so  early  if  it  wasn't  to  say 


446  DIVIDED 

good-bye  to  you  before  he  goes'?  "  She  looked  up 
affectionately  into  Woodward's  face.  "  But  you 
won't  go  now,  will  you?  .  .  .  You'll  stay  an- 
other day  with  us,  won't  you?  "  she  pleaded. 

"  If  Margery  will  let  me." 

His  voice,  firm  and  low  —  breathed  through  the 
still  air  of  that  lonely  height,  hanging,  as  it  seemed, 
between  heaven  and  earth  —  carried  in  its  tones 
something  of  that  frankness,  sincerity  and  direct- 
ness which  to  the  dwellers  on  these  vast  spaces  of 
solitude  is  inseparable  from  the  veldt-world  itself. 
With  crystal  clearness  the  veldt  —  open,  and  sim- 
ple and  direct  —  teaches  to  her  children  the  lessons 
of  guilelessness  and  sincerity;  and  men  and  women 
living  close  to  her  bosom  suddenly  find  themselves 
speaking  their  hearts  out,  or  listening  to  the  voices 
of  their  fellows  when  reserve  is  laid  aside  and  truth 
alone  speaks.  Woodward's  quiet  sincerity  of  tone 
awoke  within  the  woman's  mind  an  intense  longing 
for  full  confession,  an  intense  desire  to  return  truth 
by  truth;  to  speak  before  he  passed  out  of  her  life 
all  that  lay  deeply  hidden  within  her  heart.  She 
was  possessed  by  the  conviction  that  could  she  but 
lay  aside  her  reserve  and  confess  to  that  burden  of 
sin,  suffering,  passion,  devotion,  struggle  —  these 
would  become  to  him,  as  to  her,  the  eternal  verities 
of  which  the  veldt-world  around  spoke  in  simple 
eloquence. 

"  Oh,  darling,  you  will ! "  pleaded  Babs,  creep- 
ing into  her  arms  and  pressing  her  rosy  lips  to  Mar- 


DIVIDED  447 

gery's  pale  cheek  ere  she  snuggled  down  within  the 
comforting  clasp.  "  And,  oh  "  —  with  a  deep 
yawn  —  "  I'm  just  drea' fully  sleepy  and  tired." 

Margery,  with  down-bent  looks,  arranged  the 
shawl  more  closely  about  the  child. 

"  Let  us  sit  down,"  suggested  Woodward  in  prac- 
tical fashion.  Then  noting  that  her  gaze  wandered 
in  the  direction  of  the  camp  of  the  Irregulars, 
"  There  is  nothing  to  expect  before  sunrise  .  .  . 
and  that  won't  be  for  another  hour,"  he  reminded 
her. 

She  crouched  down  on  the  spot  he  indicated, 
which  formed  a  natural  seat  with  an  oblong-shaped 
boulder  against  which  to  rest  her  back.  Babs,  sunk 
deeply  within  the  black  skirts,  with  Margery's  arms 
closed  about  the  shawl  which  covered  her,  slept 
easily.  Woodward,  looking  down  upon  them,  saw 
the  hot  tears  drop  from  the  woman's  eyes.  Like 
crystal  drops  they  sank  into  the  folds  of  the  shawl. 

He  stooped  to  the  level  of  the  face.  "  Margery, 
it  is  awful  to  see  you  suffer,  and  stand  helplessly 
by  .  .  .  let  me  help  you  ...  let  me, 
Margery!  You  are  too  brave  and  sympathetic  and 
true-hearted  to  refuse  to  let  me  help  you  .  .  . 
to  ease  my  misery     .     .     ." 

She  drew  her  hand  across  her  eyes;  her  lids 
drooped  and  covered  them  as  he  replied,  dully: 

"  No  one  can  help  me  .  .  .  Death  is  the 
irrevocable  evil." 

"  But   love,    dearest  —  warm,    living   love   and 


448  DIVIDED 

sympathy  and  companionship  —  don't  these  help? 
Would  you  deny  yourself  these?  Would  you  deny 
me  my  right  to  the  love  you  have  for  me?  " 

She  drew  herself  together  .  .  .  she  would 
not  listen  to  that  plea,  echoed  and  endorsed  though 
it  was  by  her  own  clamorous  heart.  The  child  stood 
between  them,  she  reminded  herself,  doggedly.  Her 
past  stood  between  them.  Her  voice  when  it  came 
sounded  cold. 

"  Why  did  you  not  go?  I  thought  we  had  said 
our  farewell." 

"  I  shall  never  leave  you,  dear." 

"  But  your  home  and  people." 

"  Your  home  and  people  are  mine,"  he  said,  ten- 
derly. "  You  are  mine  and  the  child  is  mine 
.     .     .     Won't  you  have  it  so?" 

She  shook  her  head,  but  suffered  the  hand  that 
lay  upon  the  shawl  to  remain  covered  by  his  own. 
And  now  the  hot  tears  fell  upon  that  strong,  sun- 
browned  hand,  while  the  voice  he  loved  urged  him 
to  leave  her  to  tread  alone  the  destined  path  of  the 
future. 

He  spoke  in  reply  that  he  had  cast  in  his  lot  with 
hers. 

After  that  they  sat  in  silent,  grateful  understand- 
ing of  that  mutual  love  so  precious  alike  to  the 
man  as  to  the  woman.  What  lay  before  them  they 
did  not  care  to  consider.  Sufficient  it  was  to  both 
Woodward  and  Margery  in  this  moment  of  pre- 
cious spiritual  communion  that  the  soul  of  passion 


DIVIDED  449 

and  strength  which  embraced  and  animated  and 
moved  through  their  mutual  love  was  there  within 
the  hearts  of  either  —  felt  in  fullest  measure  by  the 
one  as  the  other.  Though  parting  lay  in  store  for 
them,  this  realization  of  their  spiritual  union  would 
help  them  to  live  their  lives  in  life's  truest,  highest 
sense.  No  longer  would  Margery,  attending  to  her 
daily  round  of  monotonous  home-duties,  feel  an  ut- 
terly lonely  soul;  while  from  Woodward  could 
never  be  taken  the  knowledge  that  a  big-hearted 
woman  held  him  nearest  to  her  faithful  soul.  They 
spoke  no  words  as  they  sat  together  on  the  moun- 
tain-top in  the  hour  before  sunrise,  for  they  needed 
not  the  language  of  love  as  expressed  in  words, 
since  love  spoke  silently  from  one  to  the  other  as 
the  dawn  brightened  over  them  in  the  east. 


CONCLUSION 

"Be  it  granted  me  to  behold  you  in  dying, 

Hills  of  home !    And  to  hear  again  the  call ; 
Hear  about  the  graves  of  the  heroes  the  pee-wees  cry- 
ing— 
And  hear  no  more  at  all." 

The  dawn  brightened  over  the  silent  spaces  of  the 
illimitable  veldt.  It  came  as  a  mighty  conqueror, 
driving  the  darkness  before  its  sweeping  advance 
from  off  the  face  of  the  red-brown  plains.  It  drew 
the  dun-hued  veil  from  the  skies,  and  cleared  the 
white-wreathed  mists  from  low-lying  slopes  and 
valleys.  A  million  folded  buds,  on  scrub  and  bush 
and  low  bulbous  growth,  opened  glad  eyes  beneath 
the  ardent  kiss  of  returning  day.  High  above  plain 
and  valley,  and  bush  and  scrub,  stretched  the  vast 
heavens  —  now  pearly-grey  and  palely-blue  — 
looking  down  upon  the  glories  of  the  awakening 
earth;  while  patches  of  flame-coloured  banners, 
bars  of  glowing  crimson  and  azure  —  and  purple 
and  gold,  streaked  the  eastern  horizon,  heralding  in 
the  language  of  Creation's  earliest  morning  the  ad- 
vent of  the  king  of  day. 

The  sight  brought  Margery  and  Woodward  to 
their  feet.     Hand  in  hand  they  strained  their  eyes 

450 


DIVIDED  451 

southward  —  past  those  living  glories  proclaiming 
fresh  birth,  renewed  energies,  fresh  calling  into 
being  of  the  Earth-world  —  towards  the  further- 
most limit  of  human  vision  where  stood  the  several 
dorps  and  the  military  camps  —  mere  specks  on  the 
distant  horizon.  Beneath  them  lay  mile  upon  mile 
of  virgin  waste  stretching  toward  the  distant  moun- 
tain ranges  whose  peaks  faded  in  the  immeasurable 
distance.  Above,  was  the  imflecked  blue  of  the 
tent  of  the  firmament  —  equally  vast,  equally  spa- 
cious and  far  reaching.  As  they  stood  together  on 
that  topmost  peak  suspended  between  heaven  and 
earth,  solitude  and  magnitude  —  immense,  im- 
measurable —  surrounding  them,  there  was  brought 
insistently  to  their  awed,  exalted  sense  a  realization 
of  man's  littleness,  of  the  Creator's  greatness. 

"  Oh,  what  gnats  men  are !  "  Margery  breathed 
aloud;  "  and  yet  they  can  do  that!  "  she  fell  on  her 
knees,  one  hand  still  supporting  the  sleeping  child, 
the  other  stretched  out  before  her.  ''More  lives! 
.  .  .  more  sufferers!  "  she  sobbed,  shudderingly. 
.  .  .  Then  the  sense  of  the  imminence  of  the 
tragic  drama,  carried  out  to  its  grim  finality  on  that 
opposite  point  of  furthest  vision,  broke  her  down 
in  body  and  spirit.  Following  upon  her  own  crush- 
ing, personal  grief  this  vivid  sense  of  the  sufferings 
of  others  broke  down  her  obdurate  will,  forced  from 
her  stubborn  heart  an  acknowledgment  of  the  truth. 
She  who  comprehended  sorrow  so  well  was  over- 
whelmed by  the  thought  of  the  bitter  cup  offered  to 


452  DIVIDED 

the  lips  of  her  fellows.  Her  hardness  of  resolve 
melted,  her  reserve  was  beaten  down,  her  soul  was 
brought  to  confession.  "  She  is  mine,  Phil  .  .  . 
and  I  owed  it  to  you  to  have  told  you  sooner,"  she 
said,  quietly;  then  felt  the  comforting  pressure  of 
his  touch  and  knew  herself  the  dearer  to  him  for 
the  voluntary  avowal. 

He,  too,  knelt  with  bowed  head.  For  now  a  shaft 
of  golden  light  —  striking  directly  upward  and 
breaking  into  a  million  points  of  scintillating  flame 
—  announced  that  sunrise  was  with  them.  A  hush 
fell  upon  their  spirits  as  the  Lord  of  Day  sprang 
from  his  couch,  spreading  his  beams  alike  upon  the 
living  as  upon  the  dead.  From  Mother-Earth  came 
the  voice  of  a  terrible  grief  —  a  voice  of  woman's 
groans,  and  tears,  and  sighs,  and  wails;  Johanna, 
awake  and  weeping,  typified  the  grief  and  sorrow 
of  all  womanhood  throughout  the  sister-Continents. 
The  voice  of  this  lamentable  and  exceedingly  bitter 
cry  arose  from  earth's  daughters;  from  women,  the 
bearers  of  men  —  thus  ruthlessly  sacrificed,  upon 
the  altar  of  the  god  of  War;  from  the  scarred,  suf- 
fering face  of  the  veldt  itself,  drinking  in  afresh  the 
blood  of  her  sons.  And  with  this  loud  and  bitter 
cry  ringing  out  on  the  silence  of  the  peaceful  morn- 
ing, with  this  voice  as  of  the  groaning  and  travail- 
ing in  pain  of  the  world  of  Creation,  the  watchers 
on  the  mountain-top  turned  to  the  rising  sun,  lift- 
ing their  hearts  in  supplication  to  Him  who  hides 
behind  the  veil  seeming  to  withdraw  Himself  from 
our  sorrows  and  miseries. 


DIVIDED  453 

Yet  they  knew  that  their  petitions  were  heard 
and  with  hearts  humbled  and  comforted,  hand  in 
hand,  Margery  and  Woodward  knelt,  the  child  be- 
tween them. 


THE  END 


GLOSSARY 


Almachtig! — Almighty ! 

Biltong — Dried  meat. 

Broertje  —  Little  brother 
(term  of  endearment). 

Donga — Hollow. 

Dop — Cape  brandy. 

Dorp — Little  village. 

Duivels — Devils. 

Engelsch  or  Engelschman 
■■ — English  or  English- 
man. 

Heer! — Lord! 

Ja — Yes. 

Jonge — A  youth. 

Kapetein — Captain, 

Kappie — Sun-bonnet. 

Kerel — A  young  fellow. 

Kerk — Church. 

Komfyt — Preserved    fruit. 

Kopje — Hillock. 

Krantz  (s.)  Krantze  (p.) 
— Precipice — s. 

Maar — But. 

Meisje — A  young  girl. 

Mooi — Nice,  pretty. 

Neef — Nephew. 

M— No. 

Nooit — Never. 

Onze  land — Our  land. 

Oprecht — Upright 


Opzit — lit.  Courting  (or 
term  signifying). 

Popje—Doll 

Predikant — Pastor. 

Roer — Gun. 

Rooinek — Britisher. 

Scheit — Shoot. 

Schelm — Rascal. 

Schepsel — Creature. 

Schimmel — Grey  horse. 

Schoen-son — Son-in-law. 

School-meester  —  School- 
master. 

Sjambok — Leather    thong. 

Slechte — Bad. 

Soupje — A  drink. 

Sukkel — To  work  hard  for. 

Taal — Cape-Dutch. 

Toch ! — Exclamation. 

Veldtschoen — S  hoes  of 
raw  hide. 

Verdoemd ! — Damned. 

Vierkleur  vlag — lit.  Flag  of 
four  colours.  Term  sig- 
nifying flag  of  the  Dutch 
nation. 

Wilde-kat—'VJM  cat. 

Wonn&rlyk — Wonderful. 

Zit-kamcr — Sitting-room. 


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